This is your day, dads. Here's a little photo tribute.
Check out this picture of my dad in 1976, a year before I was born (when he was 16) (ha, sorry, that made me laugh, so I'm leaving it--I meant to type "26," but since I accidentally typed "16," let's pretend he was 16 a year before I was born):
What a hunk, right? See where I get my dashing good looks? (Except dad actually has abs in this picture, whereas I have a belly.) (What's up with that?) (And don't start talking about exercise and eating right.) (I know.) (I'm working on it.)
Okay, here's a picture of my dad and me in the hospital, shortly after I was born (many, many weeks before I was supposed to be born). I'm the one hooked up to the ventilator.
I don't know if you can tell from this photo, but my head is all wonky and mishapen because my skull had been fractured when I was born. After my mom gave birth to little ol' me, the doctors rushed me away, threw me in an ambulance, and took me to a different hospital across town. I suppose the other hospital was more equipped to handle premies? I dunno. But I do know that my dad went with me from the first hospital to the second one, he sat there in the ambulance, watching as an EMT pumped air into my little, underdeveloped lungs. Thanks for being there, Dad.
Here's a picture of my step-dad Joe and I, um, PLAYING FOOTBALL???
I think this is the only picture in existence of me playing football. In fact, I think this might be the last time I actually touched a football. (I mean, sure, I played football in high school P.E., when we were required to, obviously, but I'm fairly certain that no one ever threw the ball to me, and even if they did, then I certainly never actually caught it, which means that, yes, I think I can safely say that the above photo commemorates the last time I actually held a football in my hands.) (And if you'll notice, I'm totally fumbling the ball, too.) Not that I have anything against football--no, two of my brothers are awesome football players, so I'm all for football--I just think that football should be played by people who have at least a small modicum of athletic ability, and that's not me. Not by a long shot. But Joe has tried valiently (unfortch, with little success) through the years to get me to show some (even just a little) interest in sports (pretty much any sport).
But one of Joe's catchphrases (and yes, I think it's safe to say that this is a "catchphrase" of his, even though it's not really necessarily something he always says, it's an attitudinal catchprase, if that's something that you can have) (or did I just make that up?) ("attitudinal catchphrase") (quick, someone google it! did i just coin a new phrase? "Attitudinal catchphrase?") is that he's "ever hopeful." He's ever hopeful that the Angel's will win the World Series again and he's ever hopeful that I will one day show interest in any sport. (I don't think he counts boxing, which, as incongruous as it sounds, I am now a huge fan of, thanks to Mark Burnett's brilliant-but-little-watched show, The Contender.) (Speaking of which, one of the things that made me such a fan of that show was that we got to know the boxers outside the ring; more specifically, we got to know them as fathers, and as sons, and so when I watch them box I'm not just rooting for the smaller guy to beat up the bigger guy, or whatever--I'm, like, rooting for their families.) (Since we're talking about The Contender all of a sudden, I wanna send a big Happy Father's Day to Jesse Brinkley and Anthony Bonsante.) (Pictured below is Jesse and his family.)
Here's my awesome Grandpa, who also happens to be the father of my five-year-old godson/uncle:
It's pretty fucking cool that Grandpa and Granny J gave me a (very fucking cool) godson five-years ago. Thanks, Grandpa. (And thank you for being a Jew who really knows how to rock the whole Santa thing because the above photo makes me think of so many wonderful memories that you're mostly responsible for.)
Oh my god, look at this, it's another picture of Joe trying to get me interested in sports! (I'm #51):
I've told this story before, on this blog, but I'll tell it again (just to explain that I'm, like, not merely stubborn in my dislike of sports, but it's in my mental wiring or something) because it's worth telling again: I played basketball for one year. In that year, I made two baskets. Both baskets were for the other team. I kept forgetting that we switched baskets every quarter or at half-time, or whenever. Did you read that? I MADE TWO BASKETS IN ONE YEAR AND BOTH BASKETS WERE FOR THE OTHER TEAM. If that's not proof that I'm not sports-inclined, then I don't know what the fuck is. But Joe, I love that you've never given up on me, after all of these years. Ever hopeful, eh?
This next picture is my dad with all of his boys. That boy he has in his arms? Yeah, that's Mike, who just graduated from high school. Time flies fucking fast. (Holly cow.)
Finally, I would like to wish a Happy Father's Day to all of the Future Fathers out there, such as this one:
Okay, fine, that was just an excuse to post a picture of Jake Gyllenhaal at the end of this post, but whatever, fucking sue me.
HAPPY FATHER'S DAY, DADS!