Happy Father's Day

This is a true story. It is my earliest memory from my life.

Back in 1978-79, my 2.5-year-old self wandered onto the porch, where my father was watching TV. I wanted to hear a story so I asked him, “Daddy, will you read to me?” He said, “Sure!”

I went to get a book, and got my favorite one – a story about a child helping his parents with his baby brother. (My folks actually got this book for my brother, who is two years older than me.) Now, every time I asked my parents to read to me, I always brought this book to them. They would always say, in mock, sing-song exasperation, “This book again?”

No sooner did I plop down on my father’s lap with this book (again) when he yelled, “JESUS CHRIST, I DON’T BELIEVE IT!!!” Of course I started crying, thinking that he was getting tired of reading this book to me. My mother came running out onto the porch and said, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” My father explained, “I wasn’t yelling at Mike, I was yelling at the Flyers.”

Up to this point I hadn’t bothered to look at the TV, but now I did. I saw a bunch of guys with frizzy afros in orange suits skating around and didn’t know what they were doing, but thought that there was probably a good reason why my father was yelling at them. After my father finished apologizing and reading the book to me, I sat on his lap and watched some more of the game, though I couldn’t tell you what happened.

A few years later my father started taking me to Saturday matinee games against the Rangers and Islanders (and occasionally the Jets or Blackhawks). I’ve been a fan ever since.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.