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Reverse The Curse
Vincent Fitzgerald MSW LSW, Jersey City, NJ
From Dads Behaving DADLY 2: 72 More Truths, Tears, and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood Copyright © 2015 Motivational Press. Reprinted with permission. By Hogan Hilling and Al Watts.
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Down two runs with two outs and the bases loaded in the final inning, my 11-year-old son stepped up to home plate. The minute he dug his cleats into the moist dirt, his “Mudville” moment weighed on me. There were two possible outcomes. He would be the last out, or his team’s hero. I peered through the chain-link fence, which was separating me from the batter’s box in which Aedan stood, knees bent, wagging bat pointed skyward.
I gripped the links with clawed hands, creating fresh creases in my fingers. Aedan locked eyes with the diminutive opposing pitcher while I fixed my gaze on him, praying he wouldn’t freeze. We lived 47 miles from each other, yet the distance between us on the field seemed greater.
I wanted to be in the box with him if only to whisper that making the final out was acceptable, but allowing fear to fasten his bat to his shoulder was a failure he might one day regret.
This was a moment custodial dads might take for granted relative to the daily minutiae experienced by intact families. Divorce fractured our family and rendered me bereft of goodnight kisses, seeing my son off to school, and looking into his eyes as he recounted his day. As a dad from a distance, this moment was a treasure, one that held a place in my mental trophy case.
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Flip-flopping between enjoyment and nervousness, an infantry of melancholic memories of my brief little league experience invaded my thoughts. At a time when fences separated me from the dads of other kids, apathy separated me from mine. I imagined pretend cheers from my father, whose absence shredded my confidence and fractured my ego. It was my misfortune that early morning games started too soon after last call.
While I struggled on the field, he slept under blankets, trapping the stench of the previous night’s excesses only five blocks from my field of failure. Unsupported, I compiled one hit in a two-season career truncated by futility. In the outfield, I prayed the ball never found me. My coaches knew it and exiled me to right field, or little league Siberia. At the plate, my bat lay leaden on my shoulder, which resulted in walks or strikeouts. I would mope back toward disappointed teammates, dragging my bad and leaving a trail in the dirt behind me.
My grandfather’s prioritizing of alcohol and women over his sons cursed my father who, in turn, visited that curse upon me. Had I carried on in the same manner as past generations, I would have placed my son, and maybe one day his son, at risk. I knew I was not the most attentive of fathers when I lived with my family, and my mistakes made it obvious I was on the same path. I was younger then, self-absorbed, but age and the possibility of continuing the curse beseeched me to succeed in divorce where I had failed in marriage.
Aedan worked the count to two balls and two strikes. Contrary to my stationary at-bats, the swings resulting in two strikes were frenzied activity. I muted cheers, offering a raised thumb when he glanced my way, assuring him I was present in success, or otherwise. I was sparing him the despair of desertion that hindered me when I looked to be lifted by my father’s glance. As long as Aedan tried, I assured him there would be no failure.
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After my on-field woes, I fantasized about my dad walking me to our beige Chevy; arm around me, offering a Life Saver to quell my disappointment the way Mr. Cunningham once did for Richie after a missed free throw on Happy Days. Instead, I walked home with teammates, listening to them brag about their highlights while I stayed silent. My father never asked about my games. It was welcomed apathy considering my dearth of successful moments.
With the count now full, I bit my tongue to keep silent, wary of being a distraction. On the sixth pitch, Aedan swung with a force that shifted his helmet, lining the ball inside the third base line. My explosive cheer startled other parents, but excitement deflected any embarrassment. Now hanging from the fence like a chimp in a zoo cage, I watched as a wide-eyed Aedan raced toward first base, raising dirt clouds with each stride as runners on third and second ran toward home. Every detail became a Polaroid in my memory. While standing on the bag, Aedan looked my way. I touched my heart with my index finger and pointed it at him, his cherub face smiling back.
Just after the winning run crossed home plate, I ignored protocol, storming the field and hugging Aedan as jubilant teammates pushed through me for a high five or to tap his helmet. When the excitement waned, and the crowd disbursed, we walked to our car, bound at the hip. My arm was wrapped tightly around him, laying as heavy on his shoulder as my bat used to on mine. I peppered Aedan with questions about his hit. “How does it feel to be the hero?” “Did you feel the vibration of the bat up your arms?” He could not spit out his answers fast enough before the next question burst from my mouth.
Having found the ball laying at home plate, I took it, knowing full well it would be the most valuable piece of emotional sports memorabilia I would ever own. I placed it in my glove compartment where it remains. If ever Aedan doubts himself, I can show him the ball. When I feel distance diminish my role as Aedan’s dad, the ball reminds me of my necessity in his life.
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After two abject years in little league, I never again played an organized sport, paralyzed by a biting fear of public failure. My son, however, is not afraid to try, nor is he afraid to fail. It is a success in itself, and it eclipses my achievements the way loving dads hope sons do. I look forward to the day he gets to watch his own bat-wagging child, untainted by melancholic memories.
I have often wallowed in self-pity whenever I reminisced about those formative years, during which I was deprived of the support from my father. But, as I’ve aged, I have put my pity in its rightful place, square on the sloping shoulders of my father. His support may not have guaranteed my success as an athlete, but it could have injected me with confidence and would have had a profound impact on me. He could have been first to reverse the curse. Instead, he is the lone mourner at an eternal wake for dead opportunities.
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Vincent Fitzgerald MSW LSW, born and raised in Jersey City, is currently a psychotherapist for the Nutley Family Service Bureau. He works with individuals, couples, and families, hoping to keep them intact during times of struggle. He has a 17-year-old daughter, Emily, and 12-year-old son, Aedan. As a divorced dad, he tries his best to do a better job than his father, remaining active in the lives of his kids.
Hogan Hilling is a nationally recognized and OPRAH approved author of 12 published books. Hilling has appeared on Oprah. He is the creator of the DADLY book series and the “#WeLoveDads” and “#WeLoveMoms” Campaigns, which he will launch in early 2018. He is also the owner of Dad Marketing, a first of its kind consultation firm on how to market to dads. He is also the founder of United We Parent. Hilling is also the author of the DADLY book series and first of its kind books. The first book is about marketing to dads “DADLY Dollar$” and two coffee table books that feature dads and moms. “DADLY Dads: Parents of the 21st Century” and “Amazing Moms: Parents of the 21st Century.” Hilling is the father of three children and lives in southern California.
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Originally published in Dads Behaving DADLY 2: 72 More Truths, Tears, and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood Copyright © 2015 Motivational Press. Reprinted with permission.
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