My mother became known for the line, “Eddie, take this one with you.”
I was “this one” when my age was in single digits, and I wasn’t asleep.
Rambunctious. Ornery. Quarrelsome. Contemptible.
And my father would take me to his office, the lumber yard, the plumbing store, the ballfield, the gas station, a game, to my grandmother’s, or to learn something new somewhere. One project involved putting giant decals on vans for Lou Nau Plumping and never again have I poked so many air bubbles with a regular sewing pin.
I have no idea how many times we would toss baseball, and he would get into the catcher’s stance crouch, too, when he was confident my left arm was loose. That took place in our driveway hundreds of times up until a rising fastball clipped him in the forehead when I was 14 and he was 50 years old.
I was my father’s “gopher,” too, during home improvement projects, and when he built a three-story addition onto our house, my brother, John, and I were very busy boys because once the construction was completed, we would then have our own bedrooms.
And the games. So many games. So many trips for Little League, American Legion Post 1, and then college, and he was there every single time whether I was pitching, playing first base, or centerfield. He was there.
He knew I had a dream and because he believed it possible, the man gave me every opportunity to make that dream – and several others – come true. He has always read my writing, and he tries to listen each weekday to “Steve Novotney Live” on The Watchdog (98.1 FM WKKX and 97.7 FM WVLY) even though he and I do not agree on every topic. He, and my mother, get a kick when someone asks them if we are related, and thankfully it makes them both proud.
Thank you, Dad, for making that possible.
