My Dad
To understand my Dad (Mike), you need to know he was born in 1919! He was kid during the roaring twenties and a teenager through the depression. His parents were Jews from Russia. His dad was a baker. I only saw this grandfather two or three times. I remember him as a wiry tough looking guy with sleek black hair and very ruddy, square face. I never knew my dad’s mother. I remember only one photo of the two of them. They look like stereotypical Russian immigrants of the period. When I went to Russia in 1993 for Apple Computer, I saw many men who resembled my Dad. See photo below of us on my yacht in 2008. My face is more angular, but the resemblance is there.
From what I can gather, my dad was on the wild side as a kid, His mother was very protective and spoiled him. Dad was very athletic and secretly played baseball, hockey and foot ball. The secrecy unraveled when my dad got hit in the nose during a football game. He went to the emergency. Thinking he was doing my dad a favor, a team mate went to his house and handed his mother dad’s bloody jersey saying “Here’s Mike’s shirt.” She fainted right then and there. He continued to play sports, however.
From what dad told me, he got away with murder in high school (playing hooky) because he managed to take classes from his coaches. When he graduated high school, he could have gone to college on a sports scholarship from northeastern. But instead, he became a professional boxer.
I think he fought under the name “Mickey” or “Sonny.” He had ten professional fights. He decided to quit the fight game after being knocked out. He said he remembered just laying there on the canvas knowing he didn’t want to get up. As a tween, Dad taught me to box. I got pretty good at it, but I was smart enough to avoid getting in the ring with anyone who looked like they could do damage. Boxing is a brutal sport. After three rounds, it’s hard enough to hold up your arms, never mind hit someone. Dad was also a very good baseball player. He had a tryout (so I’m told) with the Boston Braves. From there, things get murky. I think WWII was on the horizon and he ended up the air force. He’s one of the only recruits who liked the mess hall food (chipped beef on toast). (more later).
In the late forties my Dad drove a taxi. He had his own taxi medallion which was hart to get back then. I think he loved driving a cab — the independence, talking to fares, getting around the city and most of all, being his own boss. When I was three or four my dad would take me along. I remember sitting in the big leather seat next to him, listening to the radio and feeling warm and safe inside while it was cold in a Boston winter. He was around 24 years old at the time. Other memories are listening to “the Shadow” radio show in the late afternoons.
When I was five, we got the first black and white TV on the block. The case was huge and had a tiny five-inch-screen. I remember when I first saw it, there were tiny people “inside” the box. I looked around to the back of the set to see where these little people were. TV was a game changer for me and my parents. I still remember the afternoon line up: Howdy Doody, Buck Rogers, Roy Rogers, Hoppalong Cassidy, Beanie and Cecil (the sea sick sea serpent). On the weekends, we watched Supercircus, Toast of the Town with Ed Sullivan (i always imagined this huge piece of toast hovering over Boston), Sid Cesear and the Show of Shows, Martin and Lewis and of course the Friday Night Fights sponsored by Gillette. On these nights, my grandmother’s uncles came by. These were big friendly working men: Willy, Joe, Harry and Henry. They would smoke cigars, drink whiskey and yell at the TV. I loved Friday nights.
As I grew older, my relationship with my Dad became more complicated. As I said, he was a really good athlete — especially baseball. I remember starting little league very young, maybe five or six. I was terrible. There was a fathers/sons day. My dad took the first pitch and hit the ball out of the park. Big cheer from the crowd. Then it was my turn. I struck out. My dad tried to turn me into a ball player. Maybe he tried too hard or gave up too son. He taught me to hit left-handed (although I was right handed) because I would get an extra step toward first base. He hit me line drives that I mostly fumbled. I got discouraged. I’m sure he got discouraged at my lack of progress and enthusiasm. In those days, I would rather have climbed trees or explored back alleys. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but I’m sure he was disappointed in my apparent lack of sports talent.
Somewhere along the way, I could sense that my dad, although loving and caring, also became oddly competitive with me. Probably the old Oedipus complex. He was vying for my mother’s attention and while I don’t think I was doing it on purpose, I probably was doing this too. It also didn’t help, that my mom, like many women of the fifties, would make him the butt of her jokes. They were the Honeymooners. He was Ralph and she was Alice. They were very different in so many ways. They might have been better off with different partner. On the other, they looked after each for 63 years! (They looked after me for 18 of those years which is when I moved out on my own). ‘
I will end this section by noting that ironically, I became of pretty good athlete but not in the team sports that my dad was great at. For me, it was individual sports: track and then gymnastics. Neither parent encouraged these athletic interests. They never attended any track meet or gymnastics event. On the other hand, I never asked them to.