Hit Me Low

It was Friday night in Vegas, and I was waiting on a text. 

It was Game 4 of the NBA Finals. The Mavs were massacring my Celtics. It was ugly.

“Luka is kicking our ass! We will get them in Game 5! Having a good time? Win any money, player? Concert good? Looks cool, dude!”

That’s the text I was expecting to see appear on my phone, but it never came.

I knew Father’s Day would suck. And it does. This is the second Father’s Day without my Pops. To be honest, I don’t remember what last year felt like. I was still so disoriented. He’d only been gone less than a year.

But the weight I feel this year is suffocating. I suppose the reality of it has just become more solidified as time moved on.

The weeks leading up to today were just quick jabs for the massive right hook that just smashed my face.

Watching Netflix and seeing a section that recommends movies for Father’s Day. Social media ads on what to get your dad.

Inescapable reminders that I won’t be celebrating.

I tried to think back on past Father’s Days for some good memories. The only one I can recall is from 2022. I remember it so vividly.

My sister Shai was having the celebration at her house, where my other four siblings and their families would be. It was a formula we had concocted and perfected over the year that Pops loved.

All his family in one place with a water-based activity to do while someone manned the grill of assorted meats. After chowing down, the day was capped off with one of Pop’s favored desserts, homemade strawberry ice cream.

I wasn’t there. I had a migraine and stayed home.

I play it back frequently.

My sister Mal leaving the house with Dad. “Not feeling good, dude,” she said, peeking her head in my room. “No,” I replied in a sickly voice. “OK. If you start feeling better, you can come over whenever.”

I heard her start to leave and Pops ask, “Trippy still not feeling good? He’s not going to be able to come?”

What an absolute piece of shit.

That’s what I say to myself when I think about that Father’s Day. I could have pushed through that migraine. It wasn’t bad enough to stay home. What a selfish decision I made.

There’s a photo with my four siblings and pops and I’m not in it.

My siblings and family all tell me not to think like that. They say it's OK, reassuring me of family events they missed because they were sick, or maybe one of their kids wasn’t feeling well.

I know it’s not a kind thing to say to myself, but it’s the reality that comes when someone you love is no longer here. A common pitfall to focus on all of the things you did wrong or didn’t say, losing sight of the good memories.

After the text didn’t come during the Celtic massacre, I searched my phone for the phrase “Father’s Day.” I found a string of texts dating back to 2016 where I wished Pops a good day. 

They were so lovely.

I usually was working the Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival on Father’s Day, so a lot of the texts were, “Happy Father’s Day from the Roo!” In fact, the festival is happening right now. Pops would respond saying he loved me and missed me. 

I would call him later in the day to chop it up with him, and then the next day I’d ask how his day was. He glaze over it, eager to ask me about my day and the adventures of Bonnaroo.

He’d ask how many miles I drove and if I picked up anyone cool. If I’d yawn, he’d say, “I bet your ass is dragging. That’s a lot of work.” And then he’d wrap up the call the same way he always did.

“I miss you. I’ll be so excited when you’re home, Trippy.”

The texts made me smile. They made me cry. They made the shitty feeling that engulfed me earlier slowly disappear. 

And that’s a large part of who my dad was. He always tried to make people, especially his family, feel better.  I know he sees me beating myself

"Don't do that, son. Please don't do that to yourself."

On Father’s Day, before my siblings and I could call him, he’d fire off a text that sounded something like this:

“Happy Father’s Day to Jeff, Chris, and Jack (those are my 3 sisters' husbands), and to Justin! I’m so lucky to have four men that are great fathers to their children! I hope they have a great dad. I love you all so much. Dad.”

He was witty, and kind. He gave WAY more than he received. He would move mountains to help the people he loved, or a total stranger. He was more interested in making people smile than himself.

He cooked the best seafood ever. He had an infectious laugh and sense of humor, but also a fierce loyalty. If someone upset someone in his circle, there was a switch that flipped. One that can best be described as don’t-fuck-with-them.

He was cut from a different cloth. 

I can remember how much love he radiated. How much my brothers and sisters and I loved our dad. Shit, how much everyone loved my dad.

After I rode the intense reality wave of Pops mot being on this physical plane of existence, and the Celtics losing big, I got up and snagged a shower. 

When I was fresh and clean, I went to grab some shorts from the dresser when something caught my eye.

It was a $25 chip from the casino. Someone had handed it to me the night before while I was walking through the casino back from the Dead & Co. show.

I thought for a moment, and then put the chip into my pocket. I slid my shoes on and made my way back to the casino.

Wearing my tie dye Bill Walton Portland Trail Blazers t-shirt (rest easy, big dude), I was stopped by a fellow concert goer.

“A Celtics fan,” the guy screamed, blowing cigarette smoke in my face. “Here! Take this and put it on the team. Do it for Bill!” 

Damn. I was already up $25. Dead fans really are the best.

I navigated the casino floor in search of a reminder of my Pops. There was a cacophony that accompanied the maze that is a casino. It was made up  slot machines whirling, cheers from the winners, sighs from the losers, and Grateful Dead lyrics being sung way out of tune.

Then, through the cloud of cigarette smoke and vivid blurs of tie dye, I saw it. The reminder of Pops.

A blackjack table. My Pops fucking LOVED blackjack.

“Hit me low,” he’d say to the dealer, tapping his two chubby fingers on the table. I could hear that and see memories of us at different casinos as I made my way toward the green, felt table that was completely empty.

This was perfect because I didn’t have to worry about “playing the table.” It was just me and the dealer.

I sat down, placed my $25 chip on the table and the the dealer laid out the first card. Yikes, a 2 of spades. Not great, but I was still in the game. Next came a face card, the Jack of diamonds. Ouch.

I was sitting on 12 and the dealer was showing a face card, but didn’t have Blackjack. I tapped my two fingers on the green felt to signify I wanted another card.

Risky business. High stake. $25 on the line!

Boom. Face card. Bust.

“All good,” I thought to myself. I took out the $25 chip that the fellow from earlier gave me while insisting I place it on the Celtics in honor of Bill Walton.

I put it the chip on the table. Bill would have wanted it this way.

The dealer threw out the first card. It was the 8 of clubs. Decent. Next came a 3 of spades. Damn. A hard 11.

I could feel the tears forming while I chuckled out loud like a deranged man.

I tapped the green felt twice with my two fingers, just like I’d seen my dad do hundreds of times.

As the dealer reached to pull the card I said those three words for my Pops: Hit me low.