Four Years On

Today is the 4th anniversary of my father’s passing, and each year I spend a lot of time pondering what I miss about him. As time passes, I gain new insights that speak as much about me as they do him.

What do I miss?

I miss his presence. I don’t mean him not being present (of course I miss that), but what I really mean is one of the other definitions of “presence;” “the impressive manner or appearance of a person.” He wasn’t just big in physical stature; he exuded a large presence whenever you were in the same room with him, whenever you were in sight or earshot. For instance, when I was a kid growing up in the Sharpstown neighborhood of southwest Houston and I stayed out playing basketball or something down at the end of the street with my friends, and it was past that point of sunset that was my curfew, all he had to do was walk out into the driveway about halfway down the block, about 7 or 8 houses away. And one of my friends would say, “Hey man, your Dad is standing out there in your driveway.” I’d look down there. He wouldn’t be saying or doing anything but just standing there, looking at us. That’s all it took. “I gotta go y’all.”

I miss his humility. As I have noted many times before, Dad was a big man, but he cast a very small shadow. He was a quiet man who preferred action over words, and that is what he expected from others. The most humble man his children ever knew, he would’ve wanted to speak with you about the latest accomplishments of his children or grandchildren much more than anything he had accomplished himself. He always seemed to dislike talking about his days playing sports, unless of course it was someone in our family who asked him a specific question. But even then, he never seemed excited when telling a story. He delivered it in this impassive, expressionless manner. I think it was because he didn’t like talking about himself, and moreover, he thought all of it was ancient history. He did not act or carry himself like a former All-American or All-Pro football player or someone who had accomplished anything important. My friends growing up who got to know him and spent time in our home still say Dad was just a regular guy, and they loved being around him.

I miss how much he loved his grandchildren and how excited he got by being involved in their lives. One of his favorite things was attending their sports and other extracurricular events. Even with all the problems he battled near the end with his neurological functioning and memory, if he went to one his grandchildren’s basketball games, for example, he was suddenly on everything like a hawk, absolutely engaged and able to make shockingly perceptive observations about the players, coaches, and officials. It was eerie. In his last years, his grandchildren more than anything else, it seemed, were his pride, his joy, and his best link back to what we always remember him being when he was young and healthy. At least that’s how it appeared to me.

I miss his dry sense of humor; dry in the sense that it was similar to his deadpan demeanor when answering questions about his football career, and dry in the sense that it would usually come out of nowhere. It was very effective.

I miss the way he would provide validation, acknowledgment, and perspective, at the right time. I had a chip on my shoulder as a kid, for a lot of reasons that should be obvious. It didn’t help that I was also an athlete and chose to follow in his footsteps and even to the same university. And as hard as he could be on me at times, I was even harder on myself. I might go 2 for 4 in a baseball game, but I would be pissed that I had made two outs. And he would say, “You are your own worst enemy.” He would say things like, “Even when there is nobody to compete with, you will compete with yourself or create an opponent that doesn’t exist.” He was right. That’s the way I was, and I am still like that for some reason.

I am certain I drove him and my mother nearly crazy when I was little, with questionable report cards indicating the young me had trouble “disciplining himself and listening to teachers,” and by going to the emergency room after breaking bones or getting stitches as a result of bike or swimming pool accidents. I broke my collarbone at 8 jumping off a fence and broke both arms when I was 11 attempting a makeshift ramp jump on my bike, like Evel Knievel. I’ve forgotten all the stitches; I do recall getting a set under my left eye from falling against a table when I was about 6 (they had to put me in some kind of straight jacket restraint) and about three sets, the scars of which lie somewhere under my hairline. I probably had ADHD that was never diagnosed, with a heavy emphasis on the H. And yet, years later, after he looked at my first two grade reports in college at Rice, he told me, “I guess I don’t need to look at your reports anymore,” with that deadpan, business-like delivery. And he didn’t. Not once. Not through the rest of college or law school. This was validation.

Many years later, well into my Marine Corps, career when I was forward deployed to Iraq, he sent me an email on Father’s Day. Near the end, he asked me not to take any unnecessary risks, and said, “You have nothing to prove to anyone, let alone yourself. But I know how you are, so just realize at this point the only person you’re competing with is yourself.” This was acknowledgment and perspective. I had essentially convinced myself over the years I didn’t want or need validation, acknowledgment, or perspective, but when I received these kinds of communications from him, I realized I had always wanted and needed it, if only from him. And I am not ashamed to admit it, because he was really the only person I wanted or needed it from.

Sometimes I will occasionally find myself talking to him. I know he hears me. I know I’m not going to get a response or an answer, at least not one I can hear. But I think I do it because I believe that sometimes I do actually get some form of an answer — either in a sudden moment of clarity or epiphany, a new idea that seemingly appears completely out of nowhere, or in other events that are just too fortunate to be a coincidence — or because we spent the first two decades of our lives doing the same thing on an athletic field, and he is the only other person who would understand and get it.

Glen Hines is the author of five books, including the recently published Of Time and Rivers, and the highly-regarded Bring in the Gladiators, Observations From a Former College Football Player Who Was Never Able to Become a Fan, all available at Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble. He is the writer and producer of the book and podcast Welcome to the Machine, available on most podcast platforms. His writing has also been featured in Sports Illustrated, Task & Purpose, and the Human Development Project.