Throwing the football

“It’s a bit like begging,” my dad said to me after I explained a business proposal to him.

“Not really, pops, I replied. “Only kind of.”

I understood his concerns. We were independent guys. Fools as well. We’d always wanted to do things “the right way”, but also “our own way.” And many times, they conflicted.

I was 41. He was 69. Starting up a business wasn’t exactly something either of us had thought of. There was a time when I thought I hated my dad. There still are times when I dislike what he does. I’m sure he’s felt the same way about me.

But I’m tired of chasing my tail. I’m tired of doing a job I don’t like. I remember in my younger, more naïve days when I said to anyone who’d listen that I’d never end up in a job I hate. And here I am at 41, in a job I hate. Yes, it was taken out of necessity. But that was over two years ago. Plenty of time to GTFO, as the kids would write now.

So, I cooked up an idea one night. I was drinking, I will admit that, but like all drunks, I believe my best ideas come after at least four beers.

I’d start up a bar-b-que business with my dad. It would be a way for us to bond, finally, after all of these years. He’d be the recipe guy, the “talent” so to speak. I’d be the idea guy, the marketing department, the capital procurement one. He already had a cooker. All we’d need was a place to sell.

That’s when I broached the idea. It would be a “retirement” job for him. A “part-time” gig for me. Hopefully, it would morph into something special soon afterwards.

My main worries are – 1. My dad’s health. He’s not exactly in the prime of his life. 2. My ability to run a eatery. 3. Whether we’d fall flat on our faces. Maybe people won’t like his food on a grand scale. And 4. Would I enjoy it?

I decided none of those concerns were enough to worry and I plunged head first. I got up a business plan, I found a location and I set up some early food and beverage procurements. All of this before I talked to my dad once.

On vacation, right around his birthday, I decided it was time to make a sales pitch.

“You’re not a salesman,” was his response. But he smiled at the idea of me and him being business partners.

“Too bad you didn’t think of this 10 years ago,” he said.

“Dad,10 years ago, I didn’t want to be in the same room as you,” I replied.

He was hurt, but he understood the message.

“Well, what is this Kickstarter thing?”

“It’s a web site where folks go and ask for money from others in order to get their project started,” I said.

“So, we beg strangers for money?” he said frowning.

“OK, it is that. But, so is going to a bank and asking for a loan, right?”

“Yes, but,” he started. I cut him off.

“No buts, it is the same thing. We’re just taking out the institution from the process. Well, I’m sure the Kickstarter folks are now just the bank now, and I’m sure they make quite a nice cut. Hopefully, not as much as a bank.”

“You haven’t looked in to this?” my dad questioning me openly now.

“No. I haven’t.”

“Not exactly the best way to get started.”

“Well, we could just use my credit cards I guess. Since yours are most likely nearly maxed out,” I said, too snarkingly.

“No. Me and your mother have paid of most of them,” he said, smiling at her.

“You mean, she’s paid off most of them,” I retorted.

“Tough crowd tonight,” my brother-in-law interjected. A hearty chuckle was had by all.

“But back on course here dad,” I said. “We can do this. And I think it’ll be fun. Open up a BBQ joint, sell your awesome stuff, even venture into shrimps and tuna, God damn your stuff is good. And I think it’ll be a hit.”

“Son, I’d love to. But I’m too old to start a business.”

“That’s the beauty dad,” I tried to reason with him. “You teach me how to do the cooking too. You’ve never taught me anything about your cooking. I’d love to know.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“I know. But you’ve never offered either.”

My dad looked over at my mother, shaking his head.

“You haven’t dear,” she said. My mom loved to poke the bear. I’d told her many times of the last 15 years that she enjoyed provoking him more than anything else now. She didn’t get it. But I know she did. She just didn’t want to admit it. She’s much too smart to be so simple.

“Anyway,” I restarted. “Let’s make a go of it. What’s there to lose? And we could gain so much from it.”

“Gain?” my dad asked puzzled.

“Dad, maybe you and I could have a father and son relationship. Finally.”

“But,” he said.

“Dad, I love you. And I love all that you’ve done for me over the years. It took me a long time to realize that you actually didn’t hate me. That you were always looking out for me. You just never were able to tell me. Hell, if we’d thrown a football once or twice when I was 10, everything would have turned out a whole lot differently. Or maybe not. But, I’d have that memory. I don’t have it. And this is my way to try and get that memory.”

He teared up. I took a deep breath and a long swig of by now hot beer. It tasted good, however. It was exactly what I needed at that moment.

I went up to him and stuck my hand out. He put his out. We shook hands.

“Let’s do this,” I said.

“OK,” he said. “Now let’s have a drink.”

Insurance runs, part 1

Bunky’s enjoying his coffee and newspaper at the kitchen table when the alarm goes off. It’s 5:30 a.m. He still sets the alarm, every night when he goes to bed. Never fails to do so.

And every morning, Bunky wakes up at least 30 minutes before it every chimes. Yet he never turns it off before it blares out it’s cock-a-doodle-doos. He figures that clock only has one reason to exist, and that’s to make noise in the morning. So why take that away from it.

He remembers when he used to have a reason. It was throwing the ball 60 feet, 6 inches. Took him all the way to the show, that left arm of his. Never won a game there, but dang it, he made it.

Now? Bunky’s a greeter at Wal-Mart. It’s not nearly as exciting, that’s for sure. But neither was the 40 years of working in an office. Selling insurance to folk. Nice folks, usually. Until the end, when the big office started not filling claims the way it used to do.

“Times, Bunky, they’ve changed,” his bosses told him one day when he called about a denied claim from a family of four. Three children and a dad. Who just lost their mom in a car accident. But it was deemed the father’s fault. He had the window open, and his cigarette blew out of his hand. Into the car beside him. The driver of that car -- a 1987 Cadillac El Dorado driven by the son of the former sheriff -- swerved right into the Gorges’ family car, a Hyundai Accent, sending it into a ditch. Everything seemed fine, until Ryan looked at his wife. The mailbox he remembered hitting as he spun out of control had cut her left after popping through the window.

She was dying. And he knew it. The kids were crying. It was raining and the sheriff’s son was cussing up a storm outside his window. He told his wife, Rebecca, that he loved her. She smiled and closed her eyes.

Bunky got that story in court. He went to the trial. The sheriff’s son was found not guilty. The insurance company then didn’t pay the claim on the accident. Citing driver error. Bunky quit right after the trial.

That was 11 years ago. Bunky’s 74 years old now. A long time from his days with the Washington Senators. For what the announcers call “a cup of coffee.” Bunky started drinking coffee only after his ball playing days were done.

He thought about the day in 1959 when he knew he would no longer be a ball player. He was making $4,000 a year in the minors. Four years removed from the show, but still full of moxie. The managers all loved that about Bunky. He got guys out, most of the time. But he didn’t strike ‘em out. He did it with grounders and fly balls. Only problem was the last two seasons, the guys behind him weren’t fielders. The manager, Jack Jackson, he knew that. And because of it, he kept Bunky around. To teach the other pitchers how to pitch. How to keep their cool. Three years ago, a lanky kid, nick-named the Ripper by the local scribes, came into town. Throwing 100 miles per hour, but not knowing where it would land half of the time.

Bunky sat down with him after a particularly interesting day by the Ripper, real name Jessie Overton. Jessie struck out 17 batters. Walked 11 and hit six. He also gave up just one hit. A grand slam homer in the ninth that lost the game 4-3.

Jessie took a look at the wall in the dugout and reared back to punch it. Bunky stood up and took the punch instead. Jessie looked at him dumbfounded. The two were inseparable the rest of the season. Bunky told him about the bigs. About how he once struck out Mickey Mantle. One of just 34 strikeouts he had in his career.

The Ripper went 16-2 the rest of the season. Was in the bigs in September. Sent Bunky one of his baseball cards every year. The Ripper stayed in the show for 23 years. Won 342 games. Struck out 4,000. And he sent Bunky a card, every single year.

Why? Bunky only had one card. He played in the bigs for parts of four seasons. But only once did Topps deem him worthy of a card. After his second year.

And the photo wasn’t even him.

Bunky told the Ripper that story the night after the punch. That was when the Ripper started calling him Wally. Because of the wall, and because he reminded him of Wally from “Leave it to Beaver.”

A few years ago, the Ripper was inducted to the Baseball Hall of Fame. He asked Bunky to introduce him. Two weeks before the induction, the Ripper died. Killed in a car accident.

It was too much for Bunky. He didn’t go to Cooperstown. Everyone understood why.

The Ripper’s wife took the stage and told the story of the baseball card. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place. Even Barry Bonds cried, the scribes said.

Bunky cried too. At home, watching it while he looked at the album he put all those cards in. The Ripper was really his last “baseball” friend. Everyone else had died a while ago.

Now, his friends were the ladies of the meat department at Wal-Mart. Where he greeted shoppers every day. Always with a smile.

Some days, old-timers would ask to hear stories of his ball-playing days. Bunky never disappointed.

Kids didn’t know who he was. They sometimes took his chair and hid it. Bunky didn’t get mad. He just smiled and said “ya got me.” They’d always bring the chair back when he wasn’t looking. That made him smile some more.

Bunky takes the bus to work every morning. And to lunch at 2:25 every day. The same time his wife used to bring him his lunch at work in the insurance days.