Contemplating a football season without my dad

Let me start with one of my favorite memories.

It was late November 1987, less than a minute to go in the Arizona-Arizona State game, the Wildcats trailing 24-21 with Mike Schuh ready to punt. As a Phoenix kid-turned UA student, it was time for me to take my medicine and congratulate my dad on the Sun Devils’ victory.

I’m sure I made him pay for the long-distance call.

“Well, congratulations,” I said when he picked up, unable to see the TV from where he was in the garage. “You finally won one.”

“It’s not over yet,” dad maintained.

“Yeah, right,” I said, chastising his lack of faith. “It’s over.”

That’s when the ball was snapped.

“HE DROPPED THE BALL. HE DROPPED THE BALL!” I screamed. “I’LL CALL YOU BACK!”

Poor guy never even saw Chuck Cecil recover the ball.

I called my dad back after Arizona kicker Gary Coston tied the game at 24.

The tie was a win-win-win. My dad got to be right – “It’s not over yet” – the Wildcats got to extend The Streak, and father and son added a sports memory that we got to talk about for more than 36 years.

Because talking sports is what we did.

It’s what we always did.

‘Wanna play a game?’

I’m grateful for the opportunity to provide coverage of Arizona athletics for PHNX Sports again this college season, but you may have noticed I haven’t started yet, and man, it’s been hard to get going.

How can I write about Brent Brennan, and Noah Fifita, Tetairoa McMillan, the Big 12 and all that jazz without first coming to terms that my dad is no longer around to share it all with? Rich Gimino was 83 when he died in May.

So, let me share a bit with you.

Sports was currency in my family – the shared delights, disappointments and debates – and one of my earliest memories of a family activity was participating every week in a football pick-‘em contest in the Phoenix Gazette. We all put in a dollar. It’s what we did.

I recall playing with a Tonka truck on some glorious 1970s’ gold shag carpet, wondering why my dad was shouting at the TV. I wish I had been watching, too. His beloved Notre Dame was busy snapping UCLA basketball’s 88-game winning streak.

As a kid, my favorite game, by far, was All Star Baseball, featuring player discs that simulated the probable batting outcome. I played with my brother. I played with mom. I played both teams by myself. I might have even kept a scorebook when I did. (Spoiler alert: I did.)

But nothing compared to dad coming home from work and me peppering him with, “You wanna play a game? You wanna play a game?” before he even had a chance to put down his briefcase. And on the best days, he’d say yes and fold himself down onto the gold shag carpet and play a game.

Heaven.

Growing up on Phoenix sports

Dad took us to plenty of Phoenix Suns and Phoenix Roadrunners games – even the Arizona Wranglers and the Phoenix Inferno, for those who know – and one particular excursion might be the reason I became interested in sports as a profession.

We hung back after a Suns game and walked down to the court level. As we did, I spotted a single blue piece of paper, which turned out to be some late 1970s’ version of the game notes. Routine stuff, I’m sure. Rosters. Stats. Trends. Tidbits. But, to me, it was a window into a world I didn’t even know existed. And I knew right at that moment that I wanted to be a part of it.

*As I write this, I have recalled for the first time in many years of one time my dad encouraged me to get Suns’ players to sign the game program. I waited as they went into the tunnel, grabbed a few (Ron Lee? Truck Robinson? Walter Davis?), and Don Buse encouraged me to hang on for a couple minutes and he’d come right back from the locker room. I’M STILL WAITING, DON!

The internet tells me it was May 13, 1979, when the Suns were hosting Game 6 of the Western Conference Finals against Seattle. The Supersonics won to force a seventh game, which they also won at home. I don’t remember anything about the game, but I can never forget being stranded in the parking lot with my dad because his car wouldn’t start.

While waiting for the tow truck, a few Sonics came walking out of the arena. As they approached, Dennis Johnson turned to his teammates and laughed. “Sucks to be a Suns fan,” he said.

Alas, some things never change.

My dad and baseball cards

But sports was more than just a pasttime. It was, for a while, the family business.

When my brother and I started collecting baseball cards, it rekindled the passion my father had when he was buying 1 cent packs with his two older brothers in Chicago in the 1950s. The story goes that he had all the Mantles, Mays, Williams, Robinsons of the era … until a big storm hit and all their cards ending up floating on top of the water in a flooded basement.

He made the most of his second chance. Eventually, my dad became a Topps vendor in 1977, promptly putting me to work in the garage sorting cards to create sets by hand. In return, I got one set. Still have it.

I’m here to tell you if you collected baseball cards in Phoenix in the late 1970s and through the 1980s, my dad was likely a part of it. He helped organize the first card show in the state in 1978, he opened the second card store in the state – The Ballpark – in early 1980 and continued to grow the hobby in the Valley and put on countless other shows. He became friends with frequent card show guests like Joe Garagiola and former Chicago Cubs manager Charlie Grimm.

Another treasured memory: My dad helped organize a 1986 card show in Anaheim, Calif. – back on his home turf, where he was a two-way lineman for the 1958 Sunset League champs Anaheim High. The thing that made it special was my favorite all-time player, Red Sox great Carl Yastrzemski, was making a rare appearance to sign autographs.

We flanked Yaz at the autograph table all weekend (that’s a photo for my all-time collection), and my dad, puffing out his chest decades later, liked to think he was Yastrzemski’s de facto bodyguard during the show, even following him one time into the bathroom. When Yaz wondered why, my dad shrugged and said, “I’ve never pissed next to a Hall of Famer before.” Fair enough. We all have goals.

My parents’ card store was at 35th Avenue and Peoria Avenue, just down the road from what once seemed to be the mecca of Valley civilization, Metrocenter. When it was announced a few years back that the closed mall was going to be demolished, a Facebook group popped up where people could share memories of people and places.

Somebody started a thread about The Ballpark.

“The lady who worked there was so nice,” someone wrote about my mother.

“I remember that,” someone replied, “but the guy was a real dick.”

Yeah. I get that. My dad, certainly remembered by my friends as the guy with the iron-grip handshake, could be gruff. Could be stubborn. Could appear unfriendly.

But he also was a big Teddy Bear and boy did we ever have some hearty laughs over the “guy was a real dick” comment. He loved it.

Sports without dad

In later years, sports became an even stronger bond. Over time, he became as much an Arizona fan as ASU, if not more so. He loved Notre Dame football. Hated USC in all sports. The Diamondbacks replaced the Cubs as his favorite, even if he could only grudgingly, barely, give manager Torey Lovullo any credit for last year’s World Series run.

It was fun to argue with him about that. Did I mention stubborn?

When I caught the card collecting bug a few years back after a three-decades absence, suddenly our entire conversations could be about what we bought on eBay, auctions we won, auctions we wish we had won, and what we had our eyes on. I’ll miss that. Collecting hasn’t been nearly as much fun in the past few months.

I’m wondering if all of sports won’t be as much fun.

He was in the hospital for more than six weeks, so there was plenty of time to talk sports, and one of the final things we watched together, thoroughly enjoying, was Caitlin Clark and Angel Reese battling in the NCAA Tournament.

And, for as much as two emotionally conservative Italians could do, we talked about other important things, too.

Let me close with this.

I don’t ever remember my father saying, “I love you.” Isn’t that weird? Now, for sure, that might not be your parenting style, nor probably should it, but whatever went unspoken between us was always completely understood. I got it. I get it.

Besides, I will always cherish the one time he kind of messed up.

I had traveled with my mother to help at a national card convention in Atlanta. After we returned to Phoenix and were sleeping in late, he left a sticky note on the counter before he left for work in the morning, saying, “Thanks for helping your mother. Love, Dad.”

Love, Dad.

I kept that sticky note.

Love you too, Dad. Will be thinking of you so much for all the seasons to come.

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