"Stevie G" is a great story teller, he tells them with a relaxed zeal and a cigarette to aid in the drama. Each puff brings a pause that leaves you hanging for another thirsty second and his timing is perfect. He used to tell a story about me that he always relished to tell in mixed company. It was a story of triumph and validation where he was a main character (My father has lived his entire life as a main character) but I was a happy player.
I was a young chubby lad, husky, big-boned, or without a mentholated filter, just plain fat. I wasn't lazy fat, and competed eagerly on many organized sports teams as my roundness would allow, especially the local YMCA swim team. I had swum competitively for several years when my Dad's country club asked if my brother Rock and I would join a casual summer team at the club. We did, partly because my Dad always wanted my brother and I to compete and partly because he could golf more while providing for his kids, wink, wink, a double down of fun.
The first meet was held on a warm and sunny day at the Columbia Hills pool. My father was in the stands after his round of golf, surely in the low 70's, and ready to watch. As I approached the pool for my first race, a gentlemen next to my dad turned to my dad and said, "Jeez, look at the fat kid, I bet you he sinks" and added a chuckle. My dad nodded politely and the race began. I blitzed those kids, and was out of the pool running to my dad before the other kids had even hit the wall. "Dad, dad, I won." My dad without missing a beat turned to the cracking wise gentlemen with that "Stevie G" screw you grin and said, "Didn't sink, did he?"
I used to love when my dad told this story. It was a win win for both of us. I was the eager kid trying to please his father, and he let me know each time he told this tale, that I had done just that. I also provided my father with a moment for him to shine, a "dig" on the other guy, not too shabby.
I think some of my father's favorite stories involve pride, which some believe is a sin. I will let you know now that "sin" is not one of my dad's problems. Like his pride, Dad can make sin seem too good to be bad.
He has a perpetual twinkle in his eye and loves anyone else who can join the party. Need proof? He recently commented on the Tiger Woods debacle by saying, "Tiger, he's my kind of guy." Add twinkle here, oh, and light another cigarette.
