It is difficult to watch one you love and respect in the twilight of their life.
All you want is to comfort them, and to insure their dignity is kept in place.
You want to turn back the clock in the worst way allowing them to relive times that were good. I know Charles Bridges can no longer understand many of the things around him and I know he does not have a lot of time left on his earth. So as we pause as a nation this Thursday to reflect and offer thanks for all we have bestowed upon us, I want to share with you a few of the things I am thankful for. Things my Dad gave me unconditionally and with great love.
My love for sports is largely derived from his taking the time to play catch with me in the backyard and shooting hoops with me on the schoolyard court.
His son was certainly not the most gifted athlete at first, albeit not from a lack of effort. He made sure I practiced hard and despite my skinny frame and the Coke bottle glasses I sported, it quickly became my passion. His love of sports quickly ignited a fire in me, one that could not be realized in any manner other than swinging a bat or throwing a basketball through an old rim, even if there was no net draped upon it. As I got older I slowly but surely improved to display a level of prowess that undoubtedly both impressed him and shocked him at the same time. I always wanted to please him and through sports I had found just the vehicle for that. I really did not care for anything else and it seemed like the world to me. While my younger brother became a far greater baseball player, I gravitated towards basketball and proved I could more than hold my own. Along the way the only woman he loved was cut down and taken away after a brave fight against cancer. Just three years later my brother would be murdered and my dad was left reeling, experiencing more heartache and sadness than any human should ever have to endure. While he tried his best to cope, he fell prey to alcoholism and started a downward spiral that seemed to be one that would take him away from me, leaving me alone in the world, and in turn, making sports totally insignificant.
Despite the hand he was dealt, he recovered and continued to live through yours truly and whatever accomplishments I could achieve athletically. While I peaked as nothing more than a somewhat better than average player on my best day, it was more than enough for the guy who worked overtime in a factory to make sure I had a new glove and cleats every spring and a new pair of Converse canvas high tops every fall. He was proud of me, even though I was often a defensive liability early on in basketball and prone to striking out swinging for the fence in baseball. While he generally allowed me to do it my way a la Sinatra, he would insist on my playing hard and displaying good sportsmanship regardless of the eventual outcome of the contest. He would not accept anything less and I knew better than to even consider crossing him on it. Talk about walking the proverbial plank. It just wasn’t an option.
While his struggles with his own life kept him away from many of my games, he did follow me from afar and would smile when discussing any moment in the spotlight I might encounter, no matter how brief it might have been.
Through it all I experienced some wonderful times in athletics and none of it would have been possible without the sacrifices he made for a gregarious, ornery young man who thought he was both the next Willie Mays and Oscar Robertson combined. He also introduced me to the world of motor sports and I can vividly recall hopping in to that big shiny Chrysler he drove in May of 1967 to attend my first Indianapolis 500. Heck, he even took me to NASCAR races before they were fashionable. That exposure sparked a love affair with racing that still to this day is enjoyed tremendously, and I owe it all to him.
So as we sat recently and watched a football game together, I thought about the old days in which he was healthy and vibrant, and how he would take me to Cincinnati to see the Reds play or to the Coliseum to watch the Pacers in the ABA days. While I experienced great joy in those outings, I now realize it paled in comparison to what it must of meant to him. While he can no longer reflect on a game from an era gone by or a specific athlete he admired, I cannot help but think that occasionally he sees something on television or in the newspaper that fosters a thought process that in turn provides a fleeting moment of enjoyment. I would like to also think that perhaps he will just one more time think of the days in which I was running down a court and he was sitting in the stands watching me, taking pride in what he saw no matter how well (or for that matter how poorly) I might have played that day.
Yes Dad it is I who is the lucky one here. For many years now you have provided me with a perspective on sports that I could not have gotten anywhere else in the world, and it has been a joy for me. I love you for it and more importantly respect the way in which you shared it with me. I realize now the light in which I view sports today was created when you placed a ball in my hand instead of a rattle, and while I never made it to the big time I was always an All Star in your eyes. That is really all any kid could ever want and you have given me that for nearly 50 years. Thanks, and if it is not raining, I think I will shoot some hoops this Thursday on that old school court by the house I grew up in. Seems like a great way to say thanks to the one who gave it all to me.
Danny Bridges, who misses his Dad critiquing his jump shot more than he will ever know, can be reached at (317) 578-1780 or at Bridgeshd@aol.com.
Danny Bridges is an award-winning journalist and a longtime sports columnist for the Indianapolis Recorder. He covers college, professional sports and especially all things IndyCar racing. He can be reached at 317-370-8447 or at bridgeshd@aol.com.
