Ever since I was a child I can remember my father saying that he was “Boy of the Year” in 1956. Now, if you knew my dad, you’d know that he has been haunted with perfection all of his life. The oldest of three, he was the golden boy, the altar server, the straight A student. He was the first to go to college, on a full athletic scholarship no less, and went on to become a successful and accomplished executive. By the time I was born, it was somewhat difficult to comprehend my father’s humble beginnings. I lived in a big beautiful house, went on family vacations and wanted for nothing - a far cry from the sad and rundown mill town where my grandparents lived when I was a kid. Dad would tell us stories of his childhood and the “Boy of the Year” was always thrown in, almost like frosting on the top. Of course he was. Sure.
Imagine our surprise when this summer my father shared with us that he received a call from the Boys and Girls Club of his youth and was told he was to be inducted into their Hall of Fame. For a second it sounded like a joke, but then it sunk in. He really was that boy, the skinny kid from the poor home who looked for a safe place to hang out with his friends. Not only that, he wasn’t forgotten. People knew him, remembered him, and didn’t want to forget him.
A few weeks ago on a cold Thursday night, I got the kids dressed up and we attended the banquet where my father and two others were honored. All of my siblings, seven of the ten grandchildren, my dad’s two younger brothers and other family and friends were there. My dad’s remarks were sweet and funny and made me cry. I sat there, thinking of the timeline going backwards in his life… 38 years of my life, 46 years married to my mom, 8 years of college and high school I could picture from snapshots and newspaper clippings when, even back then, he still looked like the dad that I have always known. That night however, it was about my dad as a boy. Like my 11 year old Noah, just coming into his own, not quite a little boy but nowhere near a man. It was a snapshot of my dad that I never really took the time to ponder.
It reminds me of the book The Time Traveller’s Wife, where a time travelling husband bounces to the past and spends time with his wife when she was a young girl. Imagine getting the chance to spend time with the people you love most, your husband or parents, at that most perfect time. When the reality of life has yet to set in and they still think they can play for the Red Sox some day, or an afternoon of playing in a pile of leaves truly is the best time ever. Or seeing them as Boy of the Year, ready to conquer the world.
