My father had a heart attack when he was 39. He continued drinking for about a half-dozen more years and finally quit when he realized that if he kept it up he would die. He still smoked for many years after that but he stopped that too when he had quadruple bypass surgery less than ten years ago. Since then, I have thought a lot about my father’s death–how he will die, when he will die, and what I will do when it happens. But I never imagined that he would go as peacefully as he did when he left this world yesterday at 4:20 p.m. surrounded by his family and friends in the CCU at St. Luke’s on Amerstam Avenue, two blocks north of the massive (and still unfinished) church, St. John the Divine.

My dad was a generous and loving man, thoughtful and considerate. He was also volatile and angry too. When he laughed, it was not softly, but forcefully and loudly; his entire body would shake, and you could see the red rising up through his face. (When Emily first saw him laugh hard she thought he was going to drop dead right then and there.) Pop led the league in righteous indignation. You want to know how corrupt the alternate side of the street parking rules are? Dad was the expert. One time, when we were walking across 79th street and West End Avenue (with the light), a car suddenly swept in front of us and pop kicked the hubcap off the back tire–while the car was still moving. Dude stops his car and gets out, and he’s got my dad beat by at least four, five inches. But after he got nose-to-nose with the old man, he realized this was not a fight he was going to win. (I remained on the sidewalk with that funny combination of fear, mortification, and pride.)

I had a hard time with my dad when I was a kid. He was a troubled guy for many years and he took out a lot of his frustrations on his family (not to mention himself). But I grew up, and so did he in a way. I mean, by the time I reached my twenties, he was no longer a hard ass in the same way he had been earlier. Just before his bypass he called me at work one day and out-of-the-blue apologized for being so tough on me for all those years. I knew he was saying it for himself, but I was still touched. More importantly, over the past few years, I have been able to forgive him. I know in my heart that he never did anything intentionally to hurt me. Like all of us, he was not perfect, and he did his best. He might not have always known how to care for his children very well, but I never had any doubts how much he loved us.

My dad was never shy about telling his kids that he loved them. In that regard, he was the person I always turned to when I needed comfort and affection (he’s one of the all-time great huggers); not advice, necessarily, but unqualified empathy. For instance, when my fiancee Emily was in the hospital a few years ago, I came home after seeing her one day and burst-out crying. My dad is the first person I called.

If you were in his family–and I include the many friends he had in this category–he would do virtually anything he could to help you out. Need a cabinet installed? Call Don. Help with your computer? Don is your man. A ride to the airport? Pop is there. In fact, I can’t imagine how most of my family is going to get to and from the airport now. He strongly believed in picking people up. It was a small gesture, but one that shows his compassion and his generosity. Former Yankee GM Gabe Paul used to say that the mark of a good general manager was being able to make a phone call at 3:00 and not piss the guy on the other end of the line off. My dad was the guy you could call at 3:00 and ask a favor, and he’d be there, no questions asked.

Pop was proud of my budding career as a writer. Not so long ago, I decided to dedicate a book that I am editing of Pat Jordan’s greatest sports writing to him. Jordan is my dad’s kind of writer, a storyteller with a direct, clear prose style. I thought it would be a nice surprise for dad to dedicate the book to him, even though the book isn’t going to be released until next winter. That’s a long time to wait for a surprise, so I just called him up and told him about it over the phone. Why wait? He was thrilled and bragged about it to his friends. I can’t tell you how happy I am that I made that call.

Dad was at home on Sunday night with my step-mother. They have had an on-again/off-again relationship for more than twenty years, but they have been on-again for the past few years and it was clear that they were together for good this time. In fact, I don’t ever remember my dad being happier than he’s been for the past year or so. He fixed his favorite pasta dish–spaghetti with shrimp–and then he and his wife settled-in to continue their “Homocide” marathon (I had given them the entire box set of the show for the holidays). Not long after, he clutched his chest and complained of tightness and then he collapsed, losing consciousness immediately.

My aunt called me at home as Pop was being rushed to the emergency room. I got in the car and picked-up my brother and my sister (who live within forty blocks of me) and we were at St. Luke’s in a half-an-hour. We stayed through most of the night and the doctor’s made it clear that the situation was grave. Dad’s heart was extremely weak and there was a lack of oxygen to his brain for an extended period of time. Even if his heart did recover, we didn’t know if his mind would. My sister and I left around 3 am and my brother stayed with our step-mom for the rest of the night. We returned the following morning, along with aunts, uncles and cousins. There was at least a dozen, maybe fifteen of us all told later in the day–some of his close friends, my mother and my step-father.

By the early afternoon, dad’s heart-rate and blood pressure continued to drop and we realized he did not have long to live. Eventually, the doctors gave him morphine, we decided to pull the plug. My father died with his family and friends all around him, touching him, talking to him, crying together. It was one of the few times that he had everyone’s undivided attention and wasn’t talking, my step-mother joked.

It was beautiful in a way. I always thought that my dad would die alone, or that his righteous indignation would finally pick the wrong target, or that he’d get killed in a car accident (I haven’t even mentioned the Upper West Side’s answer to A.J. Foyt). I never would have thought it would be surrounded by his loved ones. It was like the Woody Allen version of “Wizard of Oz” with everybody there. He was at home, back in Kansas, which, in this case, happens to be the Upper West Side. And he was peaceful. When he finally let go, he looked calm. There isn’t anything more I could have ever asked for, and I will always be grateful for how he left this world. All the love and generosity he gave out all these years, was right there with him at the end.

Goodbye, Pop. I love you very much and I know how much you loved me.

It is a bit chillier in Manhattan than it was five years ago to the day. Otherwise, it is a brilliantly sunny day, eerily reminiscent of that fateful morning that altered the city and the country forever. I rode the IRT to work this morning and there was the usual commotion, but there were also some hints of somberness too–a business woman in a black suit, a strapping Jewish kid with a black yarmulke, a gray-haired liberal with a black t-shirt that read, “What Really Happened?” Today is certainly a day to remember those who lost their lives in-and-around 9.11 as well as an opportunity to appreciate the good things we’ve got in our lives.

I sure have plenty to appreciate, that’s for sure. On Saturday, Emily and I took a ride up to Westchester to spend the afternoon with my mom and my step-father. While Em and Tom busied themselves with a project in the back yard, mom and I made a batch of madeleines, the shell-shaped cookies made famous by Proust in “Remberance of Things Past.” They are wonderful tea-time cookies, and must be eaten almost immediately. Even an hour or two after they’ve come out of the oven, they begin to change in nature, going from a light, sponge cake to a heavier, greasier cookie. It’s not even that they are my favorites, I just like the idea of them–the immediacy of it all. And you just can’t have them without a strong cup of tea for dunking.

Here they are fresh out of the oven. That’s my ma, adding some confectionate sugar, the final touch (dig, her beloved Tintin swatch).

And here is the final product, along with a simple plum tart and a strong cup of Earl Grey tea.

A small, good thing, if there ever was one.

A heppy ket.

(more…)

Work

As Mark McClusky noted earlier this spring, writing about how difficult it is to play baseball is a tired cliche. Still, as trite as it may sound, baseball-as-hard-work is a metaphor that suits me to a tee. More to the point, I am inspired by how much hard work it takes to play the game. When Derek Jeter can struggle as mightily as he has this season, I know it’s not because of a lack of effort on his part. He’s just got to eat humble pie like the rest of us. Actually, I feel good knowing how much work he puts into improving his game because it helps me push myself.

Sound corny? Maybe it is, but it works for me. One of the reasons is because of my own relationship to work. It’s not that I’m a poor worker–far from it–but I’m often a resentful worker. My sense of entitlement and grandiosity have a nasty habit of getting in my way: I’m too smart, charming and talented to have to work so hard, man. Aren’t I above this? Instead of looking at work as the key to eventual success and happiness I look at it as a form of punishment, an affront to my greatness. Plus, I get so wrapped up in what I want the results to be that I am unable to appreciate the process.

I struggle with this daily. It hasn’t kept me from busting my tail at my 9-5, or spending most of my free time writing a book. Yet I’m often so pissed off about having to do the work, that I exhaust myself, and find that I don’t have the energy I need to get everything done.

Writing is a lot like playing baseball in that it is simply very difficult to do well. There is some inspiration involved of course, but I find that writing is mostly a process of rewriting and editing and rewriting again. There is nothing glamourous about it, though it is extremely rewarding. My grandfather was a writer. He worked for the Brooklyn Eagle in the 1920s and later as a publicist for the ADL. When I was a kid he wrote a book about the history of anti-semitism in American called “A Promise to Keep.”

Recently, my father shared his enduring memory of watching grandpa write. “I don’t remember him at the typewriter, but I do have a clear image of him reviewing what he had written, sitting at the dinning room table. He made corrections by hand, and…he struggled. None of it came easily. It was very difficult for him.”

My grandfather wrote in a clean, succint style out of the E.B. White school. I was thankful to my dad for sharing that story because I’ve found that writing the Curt Flood book has been extremely hard. I felt comforted in realizing that for most people, writing is tough stuff. It ain’t supposed to be easy. Duh.

All of this started floating around in my head last night after I watched Joe Torre’s manager report on the Yankee pre-game. He was speaking about Bernie Williams and Torre mentioned that unlike Jeter, Bernie was not an instinctive player. Anyone who has watched Williams over the course of time knows this, but Torre meant that because he doesn’t have a natural feel for the game, it is that much harder for him to break out of a slump. Torre mentioned just how hard playing baseball is for Williams, and quite frankly, that’s why I Bernie’s been one of my favorites. I know how hard it is for him. That’s what has made his career so rewarding to follow. He had to bust his ass, and seriously apply himself, to get succeed.

I’m not ready to give up on Bernie yet, but even if he is close to the end, I’ll always look back on his career and be amazed by what he has accomplished, not by what he hasn’t done. And knowing that it’s such a grind for him helps me take it easy on myself when I find myself struggling, and fighting the process too.