I can picture it like it was yesterday, but it was a Thursday, light years ago—
Noonish …The phone rang in my office; “we” were in labor. Uptown to Wrenford, down to the hospital…and then …the wait. With all that LaMaze I still pictured the doc standing over my wife, barking signals like a quarterback… and then she’d snap the baby to him on “Hike.”
Not so.
My Dad showed up late afternoon, and we advised him of the delay. He asked about timing, not dilations. At our urging, (it didn’t take much), he excused himself, drove up the hill, and went to Lodge meeting. The baby wasn’t even in field goal range.
Finally, at 12:37 AM, Prince Michael arrived. According to no less an expert than Al Bogart, the newborn was the most beautiful baby he’d ever seen. No muss, no pimples. Perfect. Moreover, my Dad pointed out: Michael’s eyes were wide open.
And guess what? This first born of two first borns is still beautiful!
When you bat first your job is to get on base. Any way. A hit, a walk, an error. Just get on. For three decades our son has been a great leadoff hitter—always getting on, always succeeding.
Beachwood soccer, regional softball, Greater Cleveland all-star in hardball. Daytime academics to evenings of 2-Mic Productions…. Political campaign manager…From Hebrew School to Chupah,… He’s always reached base, always made us proud.
So here I am asking the question my dad used to mumble: “Where did all the time go?” Wasn’t he just….
The boy…sleeping beside me for Barker’s perfect game, shooting hoops with Grandpa Ben…And starried-eyed, schlepping to Cooperstown, and to Woody’s memorial service, and to the Smokey Mountain Softball Classic in Tennessee.
But wait! In the next picture he’s getting out of Dodge! Heading east. From boy to man in what seemed like moments. It was Saturday, June 10, 2000 and OSU diploma in hand, it was on to New York— A job, a life, and ultimately, a soul mate.
I was the chauffeur. We drove cross country and at dawn headed into Aunt Rosie and Uncle Fred’s. Like a landing at Ellis Island…and yes, the immigrant was just as eager to see his new world!
Five minutes of hellos and then it came:
“Could you drop me off in the city on your way back, please.” (What? No down time?)
But I did and it was bitter-sweet. The Puerto Rican Pride parade had jammed Manhattan so we laughed aloud when I couldn’t access Lincoln Tunnel.
Then he pointed to a corner. “Let me off here Dad. I love you.”
Driving away, watching him through the side-view mirror I cried. Inside.
Not only because my little boy had grown up, but because, as I left this young, confident adult on the streets of his new home, I knew I hadn’t always been the father I could have been. And I knew he knew.
But I also sensed that he’d done OK in spite of it. And I prayed he got that too. The fact is that I’m a better dad now than I was back then. And the truth is that children are resilient, regardless.
No longer a young adult, my little boy’s a real New Yorker now. So be it.
Hard working, fiercely loyal and respected, he thrives with Meredith, (the perfect complement to a sometimes complex son), and Michael’s blessed to have found her. And although HE would dub me gay for saying it, I’ll state it anyway: She completes him. Together they are carving their future as a team.
He’s 32 today, my little boy. And he’s still the leadoff hitter, adding spark to extended family, friends on the coast, and to all he touches. I hope he knows that.
Yes, there is something special about being first born.
And something very special about Michael.
Happy Birthday.
loved, loved, loved it.