Dad Was Not an Athlete

Growing up I was completely drawn in to the world of sports. Ball, bat, helmet, basket, base, goal; give me any of these elements of sport and I was a happy boy. My passion for sports continued throughout my teenage years and on to adulthood. My love of games was not in any way driven or nurtured by my Father. You see, my Dad was not an athlete. Sure, he would throw the ball around with us and attend all the games my brother and I played in.  He didn’t coach or teach us our sports because, you see, he was not an athlete.

Dad was not a football player. He didn’t lead the conference in yards or yards per carry. However, he did carry a nine pound infantry rifle across France and Germany. Most certainly, Dad was not a quarterback or a team captain. He was, however, a nineteen-year-old army sergeant in the 28^th Infantry Division leading a platoon in some of the fiercest fighting in the European theatre of World War II. He didn’t play team sports but understood ‘team’; turning down a field promotion so he could stay with his men.

Dad was not a track athlete either. He did run very fast, aweing us with his speed on the rare occasion he joined us in the yard. The greatest race he ever ran was in the Arden Forest. He and two fellow soldiers had been captured by the Germans.  After the other two soldiers were executed, he decided to make run for it; zigging and zagging through the trees, dodging bullets as he raced toward the Allied Army’s lines.

Dad was not an Olympian. We didn’t have a trophy case in our childhood home to display my Dad’s sports trophies and accolades. No swimming medals, no track and field medals, no gold, no silver, no bronze.  Dad kept his awards to himself; never boasting, never bragging. Dad’s medals were tucked away in a dark corner of a cedar chest. They weren’t athletic awards. They were merely the Bronze Star, Purple Heart, Combat Infantryman’s Badge, the American Campaign Medal, the World War II Victory Medal and the European Theatre of Operations Medal with five combat stars!

Dad was not a downhill slalom ski racer. He didn’t care much for the cold and snow. This may be because he spent a winter sleeping outdoors in the snow during the Battle of the Bulge.

Dad was not a baseball player but he could drive a sixteen-penny nail with just two mighty blows. Dad was not a NASCAR driver but when he was eleven he modified an old Model A Ford into a flatbed pickup and became the school bus driver.

My son, now in his twenties, knows full well that his Dad was an athlete. We didn’t fish, hunt or work on cars. Our ‘hobby- time’ was sports. I passed on many sporting gifts to my son but only recently came to understand the gifts my Father passed on to me and how much more meaningful they were than the athletic gifts I gave my son.

Dad died four years ago. This will be my fifth Father’s Day without him. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the chance to tell him that I now understood what a great athlete he was; being an athlete and being athletic are two distinctly different things. True, my Dad was not an athlete in the commonly acknowledged way. Yet, he was very athletic. Most importantly my Dad was a great man; exhibiting his character and skill, not on a field of play but on the field of life. I miss you Dad, you ran the good race.

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Images courtesy of author