On June 13, 1993, my family celebrated Father’s Day. That year, Father’s Day fell on June 20, but my parents were taking an overdue trip to England postponed many times due to my mother’s failing health. They traveled across the pond on the now-retired Concorde and would have leisurely cruised home aboard the Queen Mary II.
My father turned sixty-five the previous October. Always spending so much time taking care of and worrying about family and work, he neglected his own health. Unusual for him, the Friday before our celebration, he called 911 feeling overcome by early-morning symptoms often associated with heart attack.
He had several heart issues, such as irregular heartbeat, and saw a cardiologist when he rarely made a check-up appointment, but he had never had a heart attack. He was on blood pressure pills and other heart-related medications, but never complained or fully disclosed to family as to how bad he was feeling.
After several hours in the emergency room, he was released as no evidence of a heart attack presented, but residents advised a cardiologist visit, immediately. He went to the cardiologist the following Wednesday before his Friday excursion assuring us the doctor gave him travel clearance.
My father loved sports and had no other hobbies except for owning thoroughbreds. He lived in New York for several years during his childhood and picked up the accent along with an affinity for the Yankees. Being a Baltimorean, when the Orioles debuted in 1954, internal loyalty was contested.
We both liked Yogi Berra as we both had a tendency toward malapropism as Yogi did. Many people think Berra’s words are an “act.” Coming from a gregarious and frequent public speaker during certain parts of my career, it is a natural tendency that never goes away.
Ironically, I hate clichés! I feel they lack original thought, but my malapropism falls out of my mouth during humorous, exaggerated, and dramatic casual-speak when highly-animated or a little inebriated. I think the same is true for Berra. My Yogi fanaticism is not for his baseball career, but for his humor. My father had a love of both.
Sports memorabilia marketing was just taking off as retailers, not just specialized dealers or auctioneers were getting into the action. I found a series of limited-edition autographed baseballs in a Hammacher Schlemmer catalog. Ideally, the Baltimore-native Babe Ruth was the homerun, but price was out of my league. I purchased Yogi, and impatiently anticipated the surprise gifting.
Since the emergency visit occurred just two days prior and the cardiologist visit had not yet taken place, the week-early dad salute was low-key. Although a rock from me would have ignited the same amazed expression, he looked at the ball as if signed by Lou Gehrig. I knew he also saw that signature as a 1940 time-capsule re-opened, buried at age 13.
Displayed in his office alongside horse-racing trophies and the daughters’ pre-school period art gallery, he could contemplate the past, good and bad, whenever he glanced over at the ball forever, or 120 hours.
Five days after our pre-Father’s Day celebration, I drove him and my mother to catch their Concorde flight. Rushing, he almost forgot to say goodbye at the curb-side baggage check. I yelled over, we hugged, and oddly, he said, “Be happy.” Why not the usual, “Bye, we’ll call you, see ya in two weeks, hold down the fort?” Just those two words.
Pressure in Concorde cabins was different than typical airliners. Apparently, this flipped his irregular heartbeat into an irreversible arrhythmia. Five hours after landing in London, he was gone.
His Yogi ball lives with me next to his prized stakes trophies, winner circle photos, a nursery-school sculpture and a plastic horse jockey cake decoration I put on his last cake.
Sources: Baltimore Orioles , MLB