I tapped the green felt twice. It was Friday night in Vegas and I was feeling lucky. My fingers aren’t as chubby as my dad’s, but memories of us playing Blackjack flooded my brain.

“Hit me low,” he’d say to the dealer, tapping his two fingers on the table.

I started to cry. I’d say it was weird, but it’s Vegas. People probably thought I was on a losing streak. But also, I could give a flying fuck. 

I left the table, making my way through cocktail waitresses and a cacophony made up of slot machines, players’ cheers and sighs, and people singing Grateful Dead lyrics. 

I got back to my hotel room and turned on Game 4 of the NBA Finals. The Mavs were massacring my Celtics. I was already sad thinking about Blackjack, but then I had one of those moments where I expected my pops to text me.

“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. But I knew deep down my phone wasn’t going to deliver that text.

I knew Father’s Day would suck. And it does. This is the second Father’s Day without my pops. Last year it was the heels of his death that I was sad, but the weight I feel this year wasn’t present. I suppose the reality of it has just become more solidified as time moves on.

The weeks leading up to today are just primers for making it worse. There are fucking advertisements everywhere, basically inescapable reminders that I won’t be celebrating. I tried to think back on past Father’s Day for some good memories.

Of course, I beat myself up for the last one we got to celebrate with dad. Or should I say the one where everyone else but me celebrated with him.

It was 2022 and I had a headache. My sister Shai was having the celebration at her house, where my other four siblings and their families would be. We had planned a little cookout with one dad’s favorite desserts to cap the day: homemade ice cream.

But 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 my dad said, “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 Friday night 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. Dad would respond saying he loved 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.

The texts made me smile. They made the shitty feeling that engulfed me earlier when I was beating myself up about a migraine 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 saw me beating myself up and said, “Don’t do that, son. Please don’t do that to yourself.”

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 that flipped a “don’t fuck with them” switch if he felt his crew was threatened or mistreated.

He was cut from a different cloth. 

Today sucks. But I know exactly what he would do on this day. Before receiving calls from his kids to wish him a happy Father’s Day, he’d send us a group text to my siblings and I, and it would sound 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.”

So, I will make an effort to remember how much I loved my dad today. To remember how much my brothers and sisters loved my dad. To remember how much everyone loved my dad. I’ll focus on my pops, and not that stupid migraine.

WAIT! I forgot to finish my story about Friday night! 

After I rode the intense reality wave of dad being gone, and the Celtics losing big, I got up to grab a shower. I needed to wash the smell of cigarettes (gross) out of my hair. I was reaching in my pockets to set out my wallet and whatever else was in there on the counter when I found a $25 chip.

I thought for a moment. I slid put the chip in my pocket, 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 found a Blackjack table that was empty. It has a different dealer, thank God. The one from earlier wasn’t very friendly. There was no banter or small talk, and when I started to cry simply they simply said, “Please don’t get water on the cards.”

I sat down at the table and the dealer smiled. I placed the $25 chip down and the dealer laid out the first card…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.

This time, as the dealer was preparing to pull the card I said, “Hit me low.”

Boom. Face card. Bust.