Graduation Day

Dad,

Remember that time?

Yeah. That one.

The one when you were here and everything was just fine?

That time you reminded me wound come the nights I'd rather go out with friends than stay home and sit on the living room couch opposite you and watch whatever HBO premiered that Saturday night?

Yeah. You were right.

Again.

In fact, you're right more often now than you were before.

Not that I didn't listen. If any of your five children could be accused of believing anything you said as Gospel, it was certainly this one.

It's too bad you can't bank moments lost on a random Saturday night, or any night in high school, and put them into a savings account for the years when you'd need them for emergencies.

But what did I know?

I had to go chase whatever I thought was calling me out there.

The adage "youth is wasted on the young" is true.

But every child is guilty of that.

I hope when I see you again, even though we have an eternity, we'd approach things as if we remember what the consequences were when you moved on up yonder.

I hope Heaven has its share of risks as much as its rewards.

I hope even though you now have all the answers--even more than you did when you were here--that you don't waste any thoughts on us. Because that wouldn't be Heaven.

Or fair.

It's funny how we used to have the same conversations over and over again.

"Dad, does everyone (including Mom) call you Butch?"

I told you. I don't know.

"Dad, is it true nobody ever tackled OJ from behind?"

Never.

"Never?"

NEVER

"Dad,  how do you know everybody?"

This ain't my first rodeo.

(Or) I've been around.

"Dad, why don't you like (person  redacted)?"

You paying attention?

"Dad, how do you know when you meet the right one?"

(Glances at my mother, unbeknownst to her, taking care of him, untying and rearranging the tubes, ironically put in place to keep him comfortable. Then again, when you have a month left to live, comfort is relative. Even breath is a luxury.)

"Dad, is there ever a point in life where you don't realize you're selling your soul?"

The Devil already has your soul when you're born.  It's up to you to give your life to Christ so the devil can't have it anymore. Once The Lord has it, nobody can take it from Him. But that doesn't mean you can go around and do whatever you want either. Because God will get your attention.

Look at me.

"What?"

Nevermind. And if you DO decide to speak at my funeral, don't make me out to be some folk hero like you like to do. I'm just a humble father and husband who raised a good family.

"Yeah, that sounds humble, Pop."

Nevermind. Just do what I tell ya.

(In the Borrello house, the word "nevermind" was famous long before Nirvana.)

"Dad, what is success?"

Look at me. Look at all the people who've come to help me and see me in my situation. I guess I was pretty successful.

Yeah. I guess when folks pay their respects when you're living, that means something.

Some even came and sought counsel knowing my father would be the perfect person to talk to.

Like Michael Corleone in The Godfather:

"Besides, who's a better consigliere than my father."

Seven years. It got easier for awhile, but recently it's been tougher.

Maybe it's getting married without Dad there.

Maybe it's doing house projects without his guidance.

Maybe it's some of the folks I put stock into he otherwise may have warned me about.

Maybe it's because he was just that special.

Maybe by now he's learned a few new things.

Maybe after seven years--not even the lifespan of a sandfly in eternity terms--he has a few of the answers even HE couldn't provide.

If he were allowed, I wish he could pass them along. But again, that's just a mortal talking.

Where Dad is, those questions don't matter anymore and the answers are irrelevant. It's what makes life life, Earth Earth, Heaven Heaven and time here so important.

But there's one question I want answered when we see each other again and I'm sure The Lord has enough of a sense of humor to answer, because I'm sure it's still the case here or There:

"Why do they still call you Butch?"

Hoof-in-Mouth Disease

Welcome to The Bigtime, Steve Coburn.

It was like a scene from a Bizzaro version of My Cousin Vinny. This time, the underdog is a hick coming to the big city, unaware that he's no longer just chewing the proverbial cud with friends, family and yes men.

At least Vinny came to his senses. Coburn was still looking like Wilford Brimley Sunday morning, and sounded like 'ole Mr. Witherspoon had been off his insulin-and-oats a few days.

America got to know his horse and rallied behind its Triple Crown campaign faster than Ross Perot rose to fame in before the 1992 Presidential election.

And in just a nose under 149 seconds in Elmont, NY, it was over. Well, for California Chrome, that is. For his whacked daddy, America was about to feel for the Belmont favorite the way it empathized for Everett Flatch in Hoosiers.

After Tonalist galloped to victory, Coburn's drawl was the only sound heard over the dull chorus of murmur and tickets torn and tossed to the floors. The crowd's reaction to Chrome's performance echoed that of Barbaro's fate at Pimlico back in 2006. Only nobody dare stand-up at a funeral and blame someone.

Then there was Saturday.

Coburn's cracking made Rick Dutrow's pouting seem civilized after Big Brown's Crown collapse in 2008.

“This is not fair to these horses that have been in this thing running their guts out for these people and for the people that believe in them, to have some somebody come out like this — this is the cowards way out, in my opinion, this is the cowards way out."

Oh. He wasn't finished. 

“I’m 61 years old and I’ll never in my lifetime I’ll never see another Triple Crown winner because of the way they do this. It’s not fair to these horses that have been in the game since day one. I look at it this way: if you can’t make enough points to get into the Kentucky Derby, you can’t win in the other two races.”

Oh, and there was Sunday morning on Good Morning America. 

“That would be like me at 6’ 2” playing basketball against a kid in a wheelchair.”

Apparently, Coburn's size must have scared-off his inner circle from coaching him into recanting his Saturday statements. That, or he forgot to check his blood sugar. And check it often.

The old man grew too big for the scene. People complain that the only people that run for office are in fact politicians. But when the overnight favorite--the one who runs simply because he's fed up with those jerks in Washington/Albany/school board--says something dumb, those same folks immediately clamor for who? A politician. Someone who looks like they know what they're talking about. Someone as much PR as Magnum P.I.

Steve Coburn ate all the zero-to-hero attention he could get the past five weeks like an Old Country Buffet and puked it all back-up like Carl Paladino.

Here's an idea: Maybe the Triple Crown should hold a class class. You know, one to teach those first-timers and never-beens-before how to act like they've been there before.

Of course, it could only be for those racing in the Derby, AND the Preakness AND the Belmont. And only those racing a horse in all of those for the first time.

It's only fair. All or nothing.

Or else, when you lose for the first time, you might come off sounding like a 6'2'' jerkoff who got beat playing basketball by a kid in a wheelchair.