Work Hard, Play Hard
Once, my
father broke his ankle. He didn’t just
break it though—he so completely obliterated the bones, that the doctor who
ended up examining him in the hospital demanded to know if he had broken it sky
diving. Being a construction worker, he
was out of work for several months thereafter, so not only was he suffering
from a broken ankle, but I also believe he was living in fear that my mother
might kill him.
My mother
and father did love each other, but their marriage was always a strained one,
and a few years after the ankle episode, they finally ended up getting a
divorce. Mom certainly wasn’t angry that
dad had injured himself, and while I know that his being out of work changed
her life completely for that trying time period, that wasn’t really the reason
she was so frustrated, I don’t think.
She was at
her wits end because my father had broken his ankle rollerblading.
My father
believed in working hard, but he believed in playing harder. He loved skating, and had stopped at nothing
to make sure my brothers and I were the best equipped kids in the state to
succeed in roller hockey, our sport of choice.
Every few years, he lavished us with expensive, top-of-the-line inline
skates. We traveled at least thirty
minutes first once and then twice a week for practice; he provided us with
pads, helmets, hockey sticks, and, more often than we actually asked for it,
one-on-one training time with him.
(Once, a stray slap shot of my father’s hit me so hard in the leg while
I was standing by watching him work with my brother that I had to be carried
into the house, sobbing). Most middle schoolers
I knew spent their Saturdays sleeping in, but my brothers and I were up at
7:30, being herded into our station wagon, dragging our hockey bags and sticks
behind us as we climbed in for the trip to the skating rink.
So one
fateful Saturday, he had taken one of my brothers to one of his favorite finds
for some informal, one-on-one scrimmaging.
They’d traveled a good thirty to forty minutes away to skate upon several
unused tennis courts in a sprawling residential development, since the wooded
coastal area we lived in wasn’t exactly crowded with paved streets or parks suitable
for roller hockey. The way Johnny had
described it later, he and Dad had been racing for the puck, each determined
not to let the other beat him as they flew toward the short wooden wall where
the puck had bounced. They were going so
fast they were unable to stop in time, both of them smashing into the
wall. When my father’s lanky,
six-foot-two frame had collided with the wood, he’d instantly dropped to the
ground. He had shattered several bones
in his ankle upon impact.
Dad was
slowed down for a bit in the weeks and months that followed. Though he did eventually skate again, he
never even walked quite the same after the accident (though, don’t get me
wrong, he continued to remain physically active right up until the day he
passed away). But his rollerblading
incident occurred well into his fifties, and as this was before the time of
cell phones, he had to drive himself home, using his left foot to work the gas
and brake pedals, at which point he then had Mom take him to the hospital. The doctors had been amazed that he’d been
able to function enough through the pain to make that forty minute commute
without losing consciousness.
He continued
to drive with his left foot all throughout the time his right foot was encased
in a cast, and, surprisingly, eventually began driving with both feet, something I have yet to see
another human being do.
We were back
at practice less than two weeks later, missing only the single hockey practice
that took place the day of his surgery. The following Saturday, Dad simply
tossed his crutches into the back of the station wagon and we were on our way,
him driving us all the way with his left foot, intently watching us practice
from the sidelines, calling instructions at my brothers and I: “Shoot it!
Stay with him! Defense!”
The coach
had warily watched my father hobbling in, and before scrimmage, he’d blown the
whistle, barking, “Anybody that hits Mr. Meister with the puck owes me twenty
laps!”
I understand that this was an incredibly
difficult time for my mother. With Dad
out of work, all the sudden she was working as hard as she could to feed
herself and four other mouths, having never been the sole provider before. Dad had injured himself playing a game rather
than working on a job, and apparently, all his insurance would cover in the way
of accidents was work place liabilities.
Since rollerblading into a wall could hardly be related to dry wall or
metal studding, we were also faced with staggering medical bills from dad’s
surgeries and treatments. All because he
was too stubborn to let his thirteen year old son beat him to the puck!
Still,
regardless of how Mom was feeling, I learned some things from my Dad based on
this experience.
1) Never give up.
Even if your dignity takes a hit later, at least you’ll know that, in
the moment, you did everything you could in that instant to be the best you
that you could be.
2) Accept no limitations. After the accident, I think most men my
father’s age would have called it quits on sporting endeavors. Not my dad.
He continued to jog, bike, and even skate, after the doctor cleared him
to do so. For that, I will forever
admire him.
3) Don’t forget what’s really important
in life. My dad changed his life by
playing a game with his son. At great
cost to him—financially, physically, and emotionally—he endured suffering and
ribbing from friends for years to come because of his intensely competitive
nature, which had led to the accident in the first place. But I believe, more than his desire to win
that game with my brother, was the desire to show him what’s most important in
life: Try your best. Give everything one hundred percent. Find something that you love, and don’t lose
your passion, no matter what anybody else says.
And above all, find a way to connect with your children. Family is what matters most. Years later, it’s not the lack of Christmas presents
under the tree that they’ll recall, or the fancy vacation destinations you couldn’t
afford. That’s not what’s remembered; not
at all… it’s the everyday moments and smiles.
The time spent together. The hockey
games you played with your kids, the times you chased them through the house and
threw them onto the couch, the trips to the beach, when you were the only adult
willing to brave the freezing Atlantic because your kids begged you to… that’s what
they’ll remember.
I love you, Dad, and I sure do miss
you. I hope they have roller hockey in
heaven. If so, I’ll see you on the
court. I’ll be playing defense like I
always did, so don’t go easy on me. I
don’t think we have to worry about breaking our bones in the afterlife, so I’ll
be ready for your A game.
