On a recent Saturday afternoon, when Justify crossed the line and sealed his Triple Crown legacy, I thought about the old man and hoped he’d been watching.
We don’t speak much anymore, and haven’t for years. Back when we did, our conversations were laced with the emotional stain of mistrust, bullying sarcasm (on both sides,) and all-encompassing blame. We were then, like now, too different to have much time for each other, something I suspect was preordained.
Back around the summer of love, my parents were far too young and ill-equipped to be married, much less have a child. They split when I was a toddler, and there remain scant recollections of us all under one roof. Between the age of 2-13, I might have seen him a dozen times. His only real skill was leaving, and staying off the radar.
He’d had a chance at a Division 1 football scholarship, but was never one for hard work, a path which would become his flawed narrative. In those years he bounced around a few odd jobs, gorge-eating and smoking himself into a health hazard. His main occupation, as it is now, was degenerative gambling. Unfortunately he wasn’t very good, especially in the casinos and sports books. (There are a few memories of big guys with ill-fitting suits and smashed noses standing outside our door asking after him, while my mother tried to hold the dog back.)
There was a short period when he returned, taking a Trainer’s Assistant job at a race track. (Probably helped that the wager windows were on site.) He was flush enough at one point to invest in a Pony that he presented to me as a gift one foggy, Bay Area morning. I must have been around 7. He saddled it up, along with a companion horse for himself, and after a quick lesson in handling, led me and my new friend through the stalls and workout areas. My fondness for horses and racing began that day. (The scent of churned oats and paddocks remain pleasant reminders on rare occasions I find myself around them.)
Of course a few months later, the old man was gone again, and the Pony was sent to a working ranch farther North. I did get up to see and ride him a few more times.
As I became a teenager, maneuvering my way through years that seemed endless, my father permanently grounded himself nearby. At that point he was on wife number three, or four, (I honestly can’t remember) and was flush with pride over his newborn son. He’d come off the road and was dealing cards; Later he would get into some form of real estate appraising. As he’d never stumbled across a shady angle that wasn’t worth exploiting, he was constantly running from creditors, the IRS and other various, shadowy thugs. We became, if possible, more estranged.
Partly out of necessity but mostly due to determination, I’d become a much better athlete than he had been. Having no father, especially in that era, forced hard choices when it came to neighborhood and schoolyard survival. There were several fights, most of which I escaped without much downside. (I did get my ass kicked occasionally by older kids, owing to my inner-rage and smart mouth.) But I also learned the timeless lesson for teenage boys: If you can play, and especially if you can play well, you were given a pass and for the most part, left alone.
Sports, and more so the training I craved then as much as I do now, pulled me through my young life. The result was an offspring’s mindset the old man, for his own unknown reasons, could never understand. (It didn’t help that I’d come by it all organically, without his presence or input.) He overcompensated with his other son, tying to tutor him into a football/baseball prodigy. It didn’t take, which disheartened them both.
Still, there would always be the horses. When Seattle Slew, and a few years later Affirmed, won the Triple Crown, I got him on the phone. Together we took apart each race, the breaks, track conditions, gate assignments and all other nuance. There was no one-upsmanship or rancor, just a kid and his old man talking the sport of kings.
He was also there when I called him, crying, after Ruffian broke down during her famous match race. He tried to assure me she could be saved, even if we both knew there was little hope. (The big black Philly was euthanized a few days later.)
14 years later I didn’t call, the day word came about the death of the magnificent Secretariat. Instead I went down to the beach and found a quiet spot on the seawall. Despite the sadness, my memories were vivid and pleasant, capped by the day he beat Sham by 31 lengths to win his own triple crown, a race I was lucky enough to witness on a black and white Zenith.
Hard living caught up to my father in his early 50’s. He suffered a stroke that left him paralyzed on one side. What followed was an inevitable decline. His wife left him and he’s lived alone ever since, though remains close to his youngest son. The few times we’ve seen each other or talked have been humbling, not only because of his condition, but more so the lingering shame that finds its way into much of what he says. He spends the days in assisted housing, playing video poker. This I know from random emails or the occasional text.
Unlike the old days, he doesn’t pick up the phone anymore.