I never got the musical talents of my mother. She performed as a child with her musical-group family. I performed on the ball fields (or at least tried to).
It’s something I have always shared with my father.
We both attended Palmetto High School in Miami, where his name is carved on an Athlete of the Year plaque from the early 1980s.
I used to periodically check out the trophy case during the school day to see if it was still there.
We both spent our Saturdays together watching Florida Gators football. I eagerly waited Sunday through Friday for the usual CBS kickoff and that catchy theme song. My adolescent years were spent receiving jabs from Miami Hurricanes fans, who always seemed to reappear when the wins piled up.
High school was spent divvying time between the school newspaper and the school baseball team. I turned to journalism once I became a UF student — where I also realized the baseball thing wouldn’t work out.
I still watched games with my father, albeit six hours apart, with him dozing off in his leather chair back home and me sometimes dozing off in the press box watching the Gators try to score.
Once I started covering the team, the fervent bond built over the unlikely bounces on the football field began to dissipate.
When I graduate (the Van Wilder plan wasn’t an option), I’ll remember watching Connor Mitchell hit a game-winning single up the middle, or Tyler Murphy becoming the Swamp’s savior for a Saturday. There’s the roar that radiates from the O’Dome every time the younger Billy Donovan attempts a three-pointer, too.
Such minor moments don’t mean much.
They’re fleeting. They come and go if you don’t pay attention. The same goes for those Saturdays back home where I would recreate the first-half highlights with my father outside.
The same goes for the lanyards holding two 5-year-old BCS National Championship tickets dangling on a doorknob in my room across from the Swamp.
They represent a memory; a time walking through the parking lot at Sun Life Stadium wearing that ticket like a badge of honor: My pops got me to the big game.
This isn’t a lecture on growing up watching college football with my father, although I feel fortunate that I did. It’s more about finding that somebody no matter whom they are. Just make sure they’re good at venting and listening.
Thinking back to the night of the Final Four earlier this month, I stood in a crowded bar at 101 Cantina with a drink in my left hand and my father on my right.
We could’ve made the 1,000-mile trip to the Final Four. I’m glad we didn’t. He made the drive instead.
The drink of choice evolved from apple juice to gin and juice, but what hasn’t changed is having a best friend to watch the game with.
While the reasons for watching may change, here’s hoping that the people you watch it with don’t.
Follow Adam Pincus on Twitter @adamDpincus
