“Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, crap, are you with your family right now?”
“Yep, we’re about to play a round of Spades.”
Shit.
“I’m sorry, man. Go be with your family.”
“See you when you get back.”
“Later, man.”
A call comes in on my cell about fifteen minutes into my show and my tasty Hotel St. Germain Thanksgiving dinner; I’m surprised to see that it’s my father. We rarely call each other and we definitely don’t do pleasantries on holidays, so I imagine there must be a good reason for his call. That’s the only reason why I pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jett.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. I wanted to congratulate you on the win today and to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Thanks?”
“And I saw the segment the network did on you before the game. Congratulations on winning the Spirit Award. That’s a tremendous deal and a major accomplishment. I was real proud, son.”
“Were you?” I say with contempt.
“Yes.”
There’s a loaded silence between us, and then he speaks again.
“How’s the shoulder doing?”
“It’s getting better.”
“Do you think you’ll get to play at the end of the season? Looks like you guys might get to play in the postseason.”
“Why do you ask? Did you brag to buddies at work that I would play?”
He sighs. “Son, I wish you wouldn’t be so angry with me. I’m just trying my best to have a decent conversation with you.”
“And you know what I wish? I wish mom was still alive.”
“You can’t still blame me for your mother’s illness, Jett.”
“I’m going to win the Super Bowl this year or the next, and mom’s going to miss it. She will never see me at my best.”
“You were her crowning achievement, Son. She always saw you at your very best. I wish she was here too so that she could see all your successes, but that just wasn’t what destiny had in store for her.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“You find what hard to believe?”
“That you wish she were here.”
“I didn’t kill her, Jett!” He gets emotional but so do I.
