Sunday, June 08, 2008
Sports, "Hunt's Grunts"

The Old Man and Me

Father’s Day arrives this week, so...

By Hunt Archbold

Father’s Day arrives this week, so all you proud papas out there prepare to grin with glee as you’re treated to a new titanium driver or maybe box seats at the Braves game. Or, as in my father’s case about 30 years ago, a brown wax candle in the shape of a Mini Dachshund (which he still owns, but has yet to light). And while I’m not a dad (although I do have a couple of World Vision kids in Zimbabwe and the Dominican Republic), I do like Father’s Day a lot. And seeing as we live in the same city, I often get to spend time with my dad on said holiday. My old man turns 70 this year and is a pretty cool dude. A top scholar-athlete at North Fulton High, my dad went on to play football at Vanderbilt before graduating magna cum laude from that prestigious university. He’s still a pretty decent athlete, but obviously his best days on the fields and courts are behind him.  

John Smoltz is a father of four, and it would appear his best sporting days are in his rearview mirror, too. As Smoltz readies for possible career-ending shoulder surgery this week, it got me wondering as to whether ole No. 29 might be the best athlete in Atlanta professional team sports history. Other Atlanta sports dads who deserve consideration for such a make-believe award would be Tom Glavine, Chipper Jones, Greg Maddux, Phil Niekro and Dale Murphy from the Braves (remember, Hank Aaron had his best years in Milwaukee). From the Hawks, only Dominique Wilkins deserves consideration; while the Falcons would be represented by Jeff Van Note and Jessie Tuggle, with possible considerations to Mike Kenn and Tommy Nobis. No A-Town NHL player would make the final list. Am I forgetting anyone?

Father’s Day is a day I bet Bobby Allison would like to forget each year. Like spinning tire rubber on a hot asphalt track, I imagine this holiday burns a hole in his heart. The boys from NASCAR are racing in Brooklyn, Mich., on Father’s Day this year, not quite 16 years from when the most decorated driver of the Alabama Gang lost his youngest son, Clifford, in a practice crash at Michigan International Speedway. Bobby ran to Clifford’s aid that day, but couldn’t save his boy. Less than a year later, his other son and oldest child, Davey, perished in a helicopter crash at Talladega International Speedway.

I was at the track that bloody and horrific hot summer afternoon, and as a journalist and friend attending the ensuing funeral, I watched as Bobby openly wept, and wept hard. Clifford and Davey were both fathers, and a few years later when I visited Bobby’s Hueytown, Ala., home to write a profile piece, I asked how one deals with losing both his sons. His answer basically consisted of how not easy it was, but how necessary it had to be because those young grandchildren needed their grandfather more than ever now that their daddies were gone.

I also think of three other fathers I’ve had the pleasure of knowing, two of whom have passed on to a better place. I remember the last time they were all together under one roof. It was in the spring of 1981, and my older brother Thom was graduating from high school. A large family gathering had congregated at our house to celebrate and honor my brother’s achievement. It would be the last time my grandfathers would be together in one place. I remember sitting on the back screen porch, watching them laugh and hold court. They were great men and I learned much from them. Thom was there, too, but not long after, fed up with all the commotion, he crawled out an upstairs bathroom window, hoped off the roof and ran away to a friend’s house. I’m not sure if he regrets that maneuver or even if he should, but I do know that as I see him now raising his two young sons, he ,too, has learned much of what it means to be a father from the men who preceded us in our family.

I won’t see my dad on Father’s Day this year. Or at least I don’t think I will, as right now it looks as if I’ll be sweating it out on a 700-acre farm in Manchester, Tenn., with 130,000 or so folks taking in the sights and sounds of Death Cab for Cutie, O.A.R. and Widespread Panic, among others. But come to think of it, I bet I’ll get my fill the day before with Pearl Jam, the Avett Brothers and Atlanta’s own Mastodon; I can see me Bonnaroo-ing my butt home a day early to hang with the old man.

The U.S. Open tees off at Torrey Pines in San Diego later this week, with the final round concluding on Father’s Day, as it usually does. Making use of an extra three hours of daylight, golf’s head decision-makers will have the final rounds aired during prime time on Saturday and Sunday. Providing his surgically repaired knee holds up, Tiger Woods is a good bet to be in contention. But as happy as he would be to win, even a 14th major title won’t bring back his father, Earl, who succumbed to cancer a tad more than two years ago at the age of 74.

I think of others, close friends of mine, who have lost their fathers, and I feel guilty for not seeing enough of my own, especially since we live less than 15 minutes apart. I feel spoiled because We still play tennis, share beers at Falcons games, and go to Willie Nelson concerts together. He doesn’t even question me when I wear wigs. Bonnaroos can come and go, but I’ve only got one dad. So Carl Thomas Archbold, this PBR tallboy is for you.

Happy times … and I’ll see you for the final round of the U.S. Open, Dad. SP