Finding Mudville: Father’s Day in Margaritaville (sort of) | Sports | Berkeley Independent

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Finding Mudville: Father’s Day in Margaritaville (sort of)

Published Tuesday, June 23, 2009 11:21 AM

By Dan Brown
Berkeley Independent

I took a couple days and went to the beach to spend the weekend with my son. It’s Father’s Day today. I figured I’m entitled to that.

Yes, I know, I live 45 minutes from the beach, why would I drive nine hours and 600 miles to visit another beach?

My favorite water sport is sitting back in a lawn chair, my golf umbrella duct-taped to the armrest, a cold drink in my hand, and people watch. You see all kinds out here in various forms of undress. Some exemplify the true miracle of nature while others are train wrecks on two legs. You don’t want to look, but oh you just have to, and when you do it’s a sight that stays with you until the day you die.

I fall into the latter category.

There are some things the world does not need to see. Me wearing a Speedo is one of them.

It is hot here, 101 degrees worth of hot.

I’m living life on the beach. I haven’t worn shoes since I got here. It is 8:36 a.m. Central Time on Father’s Day morning and already 91 degrees. The patio door is closed and the A/C is on high.

It’s Father’s Day in Margaritaville … well, sort of.

Nowhere is the relationship between father and son played out more than in the Sports section. Sports is a topic uniquely exclusive to father and son. You can have absolutely nothing else to talk about with your dad at the moment, but ask “How ‘bout them Braves?” and you will talk for the next half hour.

Most all conversations between fathers and sons will drift eventually to sports. A daughter can come up to her dad and say, “Hey Daddy, how ‘bout them Braves?” and he’ll reply, “Just fine punkin, and no you can’t get your belly button pierced.”

Whenever a father has a son, the first thought to enter his mind is, this is the next Nolan Ryan, Joe Montana or Tiger Woods. While mom heads off to Toys R Us, dad detours to Foot Locker to see if Nikes come in newborn sizes.

I can pick out the dads right off at high school ball games. They’re the ones not sitting next to their wives as they are currently not speaking because of something he said about the umpire’s call being worse than a call from his ex-wife and she didn’t find it the least bit funny. You can always spot a dad by the look of complete anguish on his face.

I was my son’s catcher as he grew up. I have the bruises, busted toenails and bad knees to prove it. I was my daughter’s setter and I’ve taken more than my share of volleyballs off the noggin over the years.

My dad was my catcher and had to catch my fastball. I went through four catchers in a season once because they broke their hands trying to catch my fastball. The memory that stands out most from my childhood is pitching in the back yard and cutting loose one of those low fastballs that short hops the catcher. The catcher, jumps almost to a standing position from the squat, while at the same time pivoting hard to the right or left in a Cirque de Sole’ contortion because he’s not wearing a cup. Any dad whose son aspired to pitch has successfully completed this move.

When I first executed the short hop shuffle, I heard a soft chuckle from over my shoulder.

It was my dad.

What goes around comes around, he said and hobbled off toward the house.

My dad is in Alaska right now on a cruise. I’ll wish him Happy Father’s Day here for now.

I never really put a lot of thought into Father’s Days past as I was too busy trying not to screw up as a father. My kids are grown and on their own now so I can relax a little and enjoy the day.

The only thing that would make a day on the beach any better was if my daughter were here too.

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