My father used to call me little man. It was a fairly accurate nickname up until the summer following sixth grade, when I hit a growth spurt. My high tops got too small and my loose fit jeans were no longer loose. My fingers were no longer small and pudgy but long dangly things, skeletal structures sprouting from my arms -- better for poking, I guess.
He used to tell call me prince, he used to call me champ, he used to call me dude, but that was usually only when he was a little bit drunk.

“Dude, I totally love your Toy Story pajamas.”

My dad and I used to play baseball in our backyard every Friday afternoon. I would have just gotten home from school -- tired of finger painting, tired of treating gym like it was the Olympics, tired of learning my ABCs… tired but ready to play. We were both a one man team -- I was the Yankees, he was the Red Sox; he let me win every time.

“Good job, little man! You totally beat me.” He pretended to pant. He wiped non existent sweat off his forehead. “You’re the best.”

He named me Jared… after the hurricane brewing outside when I was born. Hurricane Jared. He called me that whenever I was angry or made a mess. He called me Hurricane Jared the time I threw clothes out of drawers, flipped over couch cushions, and tore down bookshelves to find my walkie talkie.

“Hurricane Jared just hit.”

My father used to drag me to church every Sunday. He would pull my small, sticky hands through the small clumps of people. He would let me pick my favorite stuffed animal to bring with us.

“They can come with us as long as they are quiet.”
I always chose my unicorn Greta. She was good at keeping her mouth shut. She knew all my secrets. My tiger Bonnie was my favorite stuffed animal, but not a good candidate because he tended to be a blabbermouth.

My father always told me it was us versus the world. I took it literally and imagined a battlefield full of the kids I hated from preschool and Kindergarten. We defeated them all and took their crayons. Sometimes we even got some colored pencils if we were lucky.

When my mom died, my father told me she was on vacation.

“She’s with Grandma. Taking a vacation up in heaven. We’ll meet her there some day. I promise.”

I asked him if she liked it up there.
“Your mother is having a blast.”
I asked him if he thought I would like it up there.
“Yes. You’ll love it. They play baseball every day. They have an unlimited amount of crayons.”
I asked him if they still had mint chocolate chip ice cream in heaven.
“Of course they have mint chocolate chip ice cream! What type of place doesn’t have mint chocolate chip ice cream?” He gave me a wide smile, flashing his slightly crooked teeth.

My father always smiled at me. Even when he was sad. I remember on the day of Mom’s funeral, I saw him cry for the first time. He broke down once he started talking about their wedding night -- a small wedding on the beach in the Bahams. I went up on stage and hugged him. We were dressed in suits with matching teal ties that touched when he picked me up. He wiped the tears from his eyes and smiled at me.

“It’s going to be OK, little man,” he said with a forced smile. “It’s going to be OK. I love you.”

My father always told me he loved me.



The day I found out that my father died was February 6th, 2012. I had just gotten off a plane at Boston Logan Airport. I was nineteen years old. My Aunt called me, but I could only make out a few words through her echoing sobs: your father… heart attack… I’m sorry… love...love… I love you… he loved you…

People repeat the word love like they are a broken record, saying it without any preservation. I love my new phone, I love this color, I love mint chocolate chip ice cream. The word has lost all meaning to me now.

My father always told me I was number one. He told me he would die before anything could happen to me. He told me he would choose me over baseball. I just couldn’t absorb that he would never be able to tell me those things again.
I thought about leaving college, I thought about smoking again, I thought about joining him early -- take a pill, grab a knife, pick up a gun. But then, I had to remember that he wouldn’t want me to do any of those things.

He would want me to play the game.