Father's Day
Childhood memories of dad.
At the Halls Library book sale a few Saturdays ago, I bought a hardback copy of Fathers: A Collection of Poems, compiled in 1997 by David and Judy Ray.
I’ve been flipping through the poems, which range from sappy to melancholy and humorous to serious, in the armchair while sipping coffee. My favorite so far is “Moments with Dad,1” by the former Major League relief pitcher Dan Quisenberry. After retiring from playing ball, Quisenberry published books of poetry. They aren’t printed many places on the internet, likely because he died from brain cancer just a year after this collection was released. He was 45 and left behind a daughter and son.
Yesterday, I brought Fathers with me to Adair Park (“An Afternoon in the Park”) to read while I smoked my new Savinelli churchwarden pipe.
Naturally, the combination of poetry and tobacco made me reflect on my own father and the poem I wrote for him in 2017, before I was a dad myself. Perhaps it will remind you of cherished memories from when you thought your Dad was a giant.
I hope you all enjoy a happy Father’s Day.
My Dad and the Soccer Ball
Originally published on April 20, 2017
I’ll always remember the ball
bouncing up and down on his foot
in the park behind our house.
Those days he danced
to the beat of Copa Mundiales.
My brother and I squealed,
“Kick it up in the air, Dad!”
He’d bounce it two or three more times,
then kick it high above his head—
maybe forty feet in the air.
With our eyes glued to the ball,
we chased until it landed at our feet.
We grabbed it with our hands,
like American boys,
then brought it back
to watch him do it again.
In school, I told everyone
my dad would’ve played with Maradona
if he didn’t quit Newell’s Old Boys.
Eran otros tiempos,
he told me when I asked why.
Boys in the campo
wanted to go fishing after school,
not take two buses to Rosario.
They played because
it was fun to bounce the ball.
I wanted to be like him:
the immigrant plumber
who worked 10-hour shifts
in dusty Newark basements
for men who didn’t know
he looked like Maradona once.
Like Maradona
in the old videos I watch on YouTube—
smiling wide,
with the ball bouncing, bouncing.
“You must treat the ball with respect,” he told me.
Con amor, like a lover.
Not like the English do.
(I didn’t know what it meant then.)
I’ve heard it said:
Argentineans are born
with the ball at their feet.
I don’t know if that’s true.
But I know my earliest memories
were of him
with the ball at his feet.
And the picture that still sits
26 years later
on a shelf he built
in my old bedroom,
is evidence that maybe
my story was different:
Maybe I was born
with the ball in my hands.
Maybe I brought it to him, pleading:
“Dad, dad—do it again.
Kick it high for me.”
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A photo of Quisenberry’s poem:
