I remember watching some random Green Bay Packers game in the '90s when Brett Favre handed the ball off, prompting Pat Sumerall or someone to say, "Dorsey Levins with the three yard gain." Holy shit!, my foul-mouthed middle school brain must have thought, for I had never heard anyone, ever, with the name Dorsey, other than it being my father's middle name.
Dorsey. Some poor man asked his wife what they should name their child, and she smiled up at him and said Dorsey. Obviously my father hated it, and the name will always be one of the main reasons I am not currently William Dorsey Strosnider, Junior. That, and neighborhood children would have certainly called me "Billy", which my dad also despised. Ironic coming from a man who, when asked by his father-in-law in 1984 the name of his future grandson, replied instinctively "Lemuel".
Lemuel Strosnider.
Let's just say I wouldn't have been a ladies magnet.
My dad was a Pittsburgh guy, specifically a Washington, Pennsylvania guy--meaning he would say things like "leave go" instead of "let go"--who deemed his only son worthy of sharing his boyhood fandom of the Pirates and Steelers. After he purchased a Back-to-Back Stanley Cub Champion Penguins t-shirt for me while I was in elementary school (a shirt I would stab a homeless man for now, so long as it wouldn't get blood on the shirt, assuming said man was wearing it), the deal was complete.
This diabolical sports family heirloom caught a snag however when my father received season tickets through work to the local fledgling Colts franchise and took me every home game--a very admirable move I must say upon reflection. (My wife and I were having a conversation recently about whether our future children would end up being New Orleans Saints fans if we moved to the city. I said of course they wouldn't, for their father would brainwash and manipulate them into being Indianapolis Colts fans. Bill Simmons actually wrote an interesting piece about this very issue. Also, my wife asked me if a black guy on a New Orleans brochure was Peyton Manning, so we can at least all agree this issue matters a tad more to me than her.) Still, it was a gutsy decision on behalf of my father--perhaps on par with Kennedy and the Cuban Missle Crisis--and there we were, lustily booing Jeff George and watching the losses pile up like dishes.
Of course, he still said annoying things like, "Hey, at least the Steelers are still in it. You have two favorite teams, you know," when Aaron Bailey dropped the Near Hail Mary to advance the Steelers to the Super Bowl, eliminating the Harbaugh-Crockett Miracle Colts of 1995-96. I still unwrapped Jerome Bettis jerseys for Christmas, found Bubby Brister Starting Lineup figures on my shelf, and received Steelers Super Bowl t-shirts in the mail when they made it to the big game.
Weirdly, not too many of my friends knew, or perhaps ever even met my dad. He and my mom divorced when I was in the third grade, followed by a prompt move out to the country. I spent every other weekend with him, yet never felt like quite the same person I was around everyone else with him. There was definitely a "Mom & Friends Matt" and a "Dad Matt", and I was never quite sure why I never invited my friends over to my father's house. Perhaps because my dad never met his father, and always questioned whether or not he was capable of being a good father to me. Maybe that rubbed off, and I too was unsure what it meant to be a good son.
I felt my dad was a dad: he took me to see shitty action movies like Anaconda, Con Air, Armageddon, and Double Team with Jean-Claude Van Dam and Dennis Rodman. He routinely mispronounced and totally forgot athletes' names. Below is a list of names, and to the right is the name my father routinely called them (even after blatant correct pronunciation by me):
LeBron James - LeBon James
Roy Hibbert - Roy Hubert
Ben Roethlisberger - Ben Rothenberger
There's a ton more, I just unfortunately cannot remember them all right now. Ironically, he said Rajon Rondo and Troy Polamalu just fine.
When my father was diagnosed with leukemia in April of 2010, I had to get to know him. Sure, I knew the basics: he worked for Coca-Cola for like 35 years; he married my mom; he had two younger brothers who still lived in Pennsylvania; and he loved me. Those were certainties, but what else? It was quite apparent I didn't know a whole lot, and we always filled up the air with Lorem Ipsum sports talk and quick exchanges about school.
Trust me: ask your father about his life. You don't even need to wait for him to get some disease or anything. Of course I'm going to leave many details in that hospital room that night, but I would have never guessed my dad was a fireman in the pits of the Indianapolis 500 in the 70's, nor that he was offered (and turned down) a marijuana-cocaine drug route from Mexico while living in Arizona. I would have had no idea he wrecked so many classic cars, was a cook in the Navy, or made golf clubs in Chicago.
My father died on Tuesday, the day of the MLB All-Star Game. As goofy as the analogy of cancer and fighting is, my dad was tough as nails. He went through two rounds of chemotherapy and spent a good chunk of one year in the hospital.
Even though I know he wouldn't believe me, I learned how to be a father from him. I know teenage screams and baby vomit are on the way, but it's going to be great. I'm glad I got to know him.
And oh yeah...the Pirates are in first place.
Here's to you, Pops.
