There were, of course, rules to learn. First came the handshake. None of those fishy little finger grips, but a good firm squeeze apanied by an equally strong gaze into the other’s eyes.“The first thing anyone knows about you is your handshake,” he would say. And we’d practice it each night on his return from work, the serious toddler in the battered Cleveland Indian’s cap running up to the giant father to shake hands again and again until it was firm enough.
As time passed, there were other rules to learn.“Always do your best.”“Do it now.”“Never lie!” And most importantly,“You can do whatever you have to do.” By my teens, he wasn’t telling me what to do anymore, which was scary and heady at the same time. He provided perspective3, not telling me what was around the great corner of life but letting me know there was a lot more than just today and the next, which I hadn’t thought of.
One day, I realize now, there was a change. I wasn’t trying to please him so much as I was trying to impress him. I never asked him toe to my football games. He had a high-pressure career, and it meant driving through most of Friday night. But for all the big games, when I looked over at the sideline, there was that f***liar fedora. And by God, did the opposing team captain ever get a firm handshake and a gaze he would remember.
Then, a school fact contradicted something he said. Impossible that he could be wrong, but there it was in the book. These accumulated over time, along with personal experiences, to buttress4 my own developing sense of values. And I could tell we had each taken our own, perfectly normal paths.
I began to see, too, his blind spots, his prejudices and his weaknesses. I never