Fathers, Bars, & Monday Night Football

I was a regular at Bud’s Tavern by the age of nine. Bud’s was a smoky, single-story bastion of alcohol and conversation. This Father's Day, I'm remembering my time there with my dad.

In 4th grade I wrote a story about a man named Ivan. Ivan had rosy cheeks and hair somewhere closer to blonde than brown. He lived in either Denmark or Norway, two places I couldn’t have located on a map at that age but seemed right for the story.

Ivan also had a drinking problem.

And while he enjoyed his scotch and his gin and his beer, what Ivan really loved was vodka. And not just any vodka but Russian Vodka. And, well, not just any Russian Vodka but specifically Stolichnaya Vodka.

I remember writing about the glass bottle with the label full of gold markings and how its big white letters rested against a red backdrop that said: STOLICHNAYA on top and RUSSIAN VODKA on the bottom.

Ivan loved this drink and hated it, too. And the story told of how he battled through his addiction to eventually reach an achievement I’ve long since forgotten while discovering some measure of peace.

My 4th grade teacher read the story and called Mom and Dad. While it flowed well and the writing was strong, he said he did have some concerns over a 10-year-old with such a knowledge of spirits, especially the detail to spell – correctly I may add– this particular brand of Russian Vodka.

Mom and Dad listened to his concerns. ‘Well, nothing to worry about there,’ Mom and Dad told him. ‘He’s just been hanging around his dad’s bar watching football, drinking fountain Coke, and trading stories with some of the regulars. Glad you liked the story, though.’

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I lost my dad on November 20, 2010. He was my friend, my father, and my role model.

Not a day passes where I don’t think of his grin and his laugh and how he made everyone around him feel included and special and cared for.

This is a story from To Dad, From Kelly. It’s about being a kid and idolizing your dad. About football and conversation. And about memories forged through a haze of smoke and greasy cheeseburgers as a young boy hanging at your Dad’s bar.

It’s called, Monday Night Football.

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I was a regular at Bud’s Tavern by the age of nine. Bud’s is a single-story bastion of alcohol and conversation that sits next to a car wash and Kentucky Fried Chicken on Fremont’s main drag. Dad owned Bud’s for a handful of my younger years in another of his post-football-this-sounds-interesting forays.

Smoke from too many cigarettes and greasy meals fried in a makeshift kitchen threatened to suffocate Bud’s. The exhaust system wheezed at best and failed at worst. The door to the stall for the men’s bathroom had been missing since before I ever stepped foot inside the hallowed walls. Refinement skipped Bud’s many years ago, but character did not. I loved the joint.

My toes tingled and my heart tapped whenever a trip to Bud’s approached. Once there, I felt like a prince eyeing his future kingdom while gliding between the bar’s wobbly tables. I drank soda from the same eight-ounce glasses as the men used to drink their beer. When my glass ran dry, I strutted behind the bar and sprayed myself a refill from the soda fountain. If I wanted to hang at the bar on a school night and chat football with a bunch of guys looking to let loose, I did that too. Well, sort of, and only on Mondays.

Dad following one of his many knee surgeries carting my sister and me up the stairs.

Unlike most elementary school kids, I longed for Monday. Monday meant football games and conversations around subjects out of my league. It meant fatty cheeseburgers oozing puddles of grease onto fries that came along for the slippery ride. Monday, for me, meant Monday Night Football and a trip to the corner stool at Bud’s Tavern.

I attended a small, Catholic elementary school through fifth grade. During those years, every Monday morning brought the first mass of the week (the other occurred on Friday). The priest chanted his creeds, and the ritual of service played out according to a well-choreographed script even less enjoyable than the spelling tests I took every Friday afternoon. I watched it unfold with intent eyes that masked my boredom.

Instead of listening, I spent the hour refreshing my brain with the important stats for each team playing in the Monday Night Football game that evening. As the choir rejoiced, my ears heard the old blues numbers that I knew would float from Bud’s jukebox. Names such as B. B. King, Muddy Waters, and Eric Clapton didn’t mean anything to me at that age, but their guitar riffs helped me escape to a better place than the cramped pew where I found myself on those Monday mornings. My feet twitched against the green padding of the church’s kneelers, patience an impossible goal for my energized spirit. A hint of freedom arrived when I dipped my right hand in the holy water collected in a large marble bowl, made the sign of the cross, and left the church thanking God for another night with Dad at the bar. Sports and religion often blurred into one in my family.

When the bell rang at 3:30 p.m. to end another day, I sprinted home and prepared for the evening. I’d finish my homework first and then wait for Dad to stroll through the front door so the night could commence. While waiting, I would imagine my teeth piercing a sizzling cheeseburger, the grease dripping first to my small fingers and then onto my plate of overly peppered fries. The television over my shoulder would show the football game, and I’d slip into the easy comfort of an adult world. That such an image of heaven could exist stoked my faith in God’s greatness more than anything the priest had promised during the early morning church service.

Dad and I had a set routine to our Mondays. Two hours before kickoff, we drove to a mostly empty YMCA and reimagined a basketball court as our football field. Dad envisioned a new “come-from-behind” scenario for our team each week: Down four points with one minute remaining in the game, we had a single timeout and needed to score a touchdown to win. He called the plays and threw the passes. I ran the pass routes and made the catches.

Our offensive charge would start at one baseline of the hardwood court. Without time to huddle, we sprinted to the line of scrimmage between plays. Dad barked numbers that corresponded to specific pass routes for me to run—a secret system developed over several seasons. “One” equaled a “slant,” or three steps upfield with a cut to the inside at a sharp angle. “Plant off your outside leg,” Dad liked to say. “Two” called for four strides and a break to the sideline, or an “out.” “Come back to the football and catch the ball with your hands,” Dad reminded me.

Our numbered calls continued into the teens, and I fancied myself a professional player memorizing all the details. I believed that victory depended on perfection with every step of every pass route. Regardless of how long we played, winning and losing always depended on the game’s final play. And I needed to make the winning catch.

Dad and I on vacation in South Carolina, four months before he died.

Father and son. Coach and protégé. Rob and Kelly. Our tandem never lost in those days.

I would badger Dad with questions on the short ride from the YMCA to Bud’s. “How should I run that route better? Should we add this play? Did you have favorite plays in your games?” I obsessed over every move I made. Dad’s confused face now makes me think he probably wondered what type of inquisitive sports-mad monster he had created.

When we entered Bud’s through the back entrance, cigarette fumes and familiar voices would collide with my sweaty face. My spirits, already on cloud nine, floated into a world of delight. Belonging inside Bud’s, a place that couldn’t legally welcome me for over a decade, shifted my confidence into overdrive. Man, this felt good.

“Who’s winning tonight?” The welcoming words from scattered patrons buzzed in my ears.

“The team you don’t like!” I would joke.

I walked toward an open bar stool. Pictures of Dad and teammates from his glory days covered the walls. In a far corner, a jukebox with rails of flashing lights framing its exterior reflected the neon-blue cursive letters from the “Sweet Home Chicago” sign hanging above it. Smoke exhaled from the tiny grill that masqueraded as the kitchen and existed in a dish room separated from the bar by two swinging doors more fitting for a western saloon than a tavern in Northwest Ohio. Small, four-person tables occupied the floor space. On Mondays, though, the only action worth watching took place at the bar.

As much as I loved football, the conversations at the bar seduced me the minute I settled my butt into my seat. I listened as men spoke in serious tones while sipping beers, their muddled sounds playing like a symphony. Words arriving in rapid spurts, separated by patches of silence, provided the rhythm. Meanwhile, Dad played conductor, nudging the crowd from talk of sports to jobs to wives and the other topics men share when their inhibitions dissipate in the warm glow of slight inebriation. He poked and prodded, pushed questions, welcomed answers. The pace hummed, transitioning from one subject to the next. Dad was a maestro, and I sat spellbound, idolizing the master at work.

Dad’s jersey and ashes spread at old Mile High Stadium

As I listened to the swirl of conversations, still naïve about the battles with wives, children, and bosses that leave men with the wounds required to contribute in such situations, I sat silent and happy. Sitting and listening satisfied me. I was more than a wallflower but less than a supporting actor, and that was more than enough.

The two-minute warning of the first half signaled the end of my night. I wished my farewells, and Dad drove me home where my exhausted body collapsed on my bed covers. By the next morning, I started counting the hours until the following Monday. I longed to be part of the team. I couldn’t wait to perch atop my bar stool and disappear from elementary school as one of the guys at the bar. Mostly, though, I wanted to spend another evening with my best friend—my dad.