When I reflect upon my childhood, my fondest memories of my father are: The day he came to my 5th-grade class and talked about his career as a lawyer; the day I sat in court and watched him defend his client; the days I sat in his office and watched him dictate memos to his secretary; the days when he sat in the stands and watched me compete in sports; the moments he counseled me after a heart breaking loss and told me I had a knack for turning a disadvantage into an advantage; the day he tried to explain the birds and bees to me; the days he taught me how to read out loud so I could be a lector at church services.
I treasure all these moments in time – but there is one memory of my father that stands out above all others. Twas when he and I played catch with a baseball in my front yard. My father wasn’t a great athlete. He weighed 119 pounds when he graduated high school. He was also a lefty (and so are both of my kids). He spent the majority of his daytime hours reading and studying – and still does. So it was a BIG deal for him to stop reading and play catch with me. Even for a few minutes. Isn’t it funny how that memory stands above all the others? It shows how delicate and precious each moment in time really is. It also shows how an exchange of energy – expressed through the tossing of a baseball – makes everything else in life seem trivial.
I love you Dad – and I’m thankful for the memories.
Zen Master of the Internet®
P.S. Your courage and confidence will soar when you’re a member of the Furey Faithful.