Memories of a friend

     During my recent vacation to celebrate my birthday with my biological aunt and uncle, they mentioned remembering a friend of my birth mother had introduced to them sometime back in the early 1970's. They didn't remember her name specifically but her husband's name was very unusual. After a Google search and a few short clicks I found two names and a picture on Facebook. My aunt and uncle looked at the photo for a few moments and felt fairly positive it might be them. After returning home from the trip I did a bit more digging and was able to confirm their identities. From there, I went back to Facebook and after only a few messages and a few repeated attempts at a “friend request,” we were connected.

     I am happy to say we spoke on the phone today for about an hour and talked about her memories of my mother, Rosie. These memories, which I have been given permission to share, are both lovely and heartbreaking. I've mentioned before in other blog posts that the circumstances around her pregnancy and my subsequent adoption were both dramatic and traumatic. Clearly, from what you are about to read, my mother had some very difficult challenges during her early years as an adult. Please keep this in mind though, in the end everything turned out for the better and everyone involved went on to live happy lives.

     Cheryl and Rosie were close friends for a number of years during the late 1960's and early 1970's. She remembers Rosie, who was in her early 20's, as having a heart of gold and being full of love and compassion. The kind of person who would do anything for anyone. However, she also remembers Rosie as being someone who, “cared far more for people than people cared for her.” Sadly, she remembers Rosie confiding at times how she felt unloved and unaccepted and thought people judged her harshly because of her weight problem. As a result of this self-loathing and sense of rejection, Cheryl believes, from her observations, Rosie had a tendency to cling to people who showed her any amount of acceptance.

     During this time she remembers Rosie being a bit of a transient, renting rooms in area houses which had been converted into small apartments. She recalls she worked in the title office of a car dealership but often didn't have enough money to get by. It also didn't appear as if Rosie received any help from her family or that she even had a good relationship with her parents. On one occasion she remembers Rosie inviting her mom and dad for dinner her in small apartment and while she was in the kitchen cooking, one of her parents asked Rosie why “she couldn't be thin like her friends,” and why all she thought about was “eating and cooking.” Cheryl recalls protesting and chiding Rosie's parents for saying such a rude thing and reminded them the dinner was being prepared for them. Cheryl remembers them responding they were going to stay. Cheryl remembers being left with the distinct impression a great deal of embarrassment surrounded Rosie's weight problem for her parents and the rejection she felt by them and others drove her to eat even more.

     According to Cheryl, when Rosie confided she was pregnant, she was in a panic and didn't know how to handle the situation. No mention was made of who the father was or if he even knew. Later, after she announced to her parents she was expecting, Cheryl remembers Rosie being shunned and offered no help or guidance whatsoever, other than them pushing for her to give me up for adoption. Cheryl remembers Rosie calling her mom numerous times and pleading for them to reconsider helping, only to be hung up on repeatedly.

     Cheryl remembers Rosie being poor, desperate, and lost. The whole matter tore her up emotionally and the last thing she wanted to do was give me up. Cheryl remembers Rosie talking to a social worker for advice and getting information about adoption. Still holding on to hope she tried to figure out a way to keep me but eventually came to decision to give me up. Cheryl told me my mother wanted me to have something she never felt she had herself—two loving and accepting parents. And that's what I got.

     Cheryl closed our conversation by saying how astonishing was to hear from me. She also said after after looking at the side by side pictures of me and Rosie, I was the spittin' image of my mother. Cheryl was very forthcoming with her memories of my mother and Im grateful for her willingness to share. She told me to stay and in touch and if I think of anything else to just ask. She seems like a very sweet lady. It's not wonder she and my mother were such good friends all those years ago.

     I closed by reassuring Cheryl that many years after my birth and adoption Rosie and her parents reconciled and everyone regretted the decision of ever letting me go. This was revelation was comforting to her, as she had always wondered what had happened to Rosie, after the two of them lost touch. She was also very sorry about Rosie's passing in 2005.

     Before hanging up, there was one last item she wanted to share about Rosie that sent goosebumps racing over my body. A few years after Rosie had me and settled back into her normal life, Cheryl gave birth to her first child. She remembers Rosie being very excited about the baby and wanted to be involved as much as possible. Both Cheryl, and her husband at the time, loved Rosie and welcomed her interest and involvement with their new baby boy—they happened to name, Todd.

     Truth, is indeed, stranger than fiction.

Adding to my family archives

     My wife likes to pick on me because I keep a personal archive. She does so in jest, I might add, to not cast aspersions. Her gentle jabs have more to do with the amount of space the archives occupy in our closet than the overall act of keeping them. I suppose when I was younger I thought someday I would do something grand and someone somewhere might want this stuff to exhibit. We all start out with grandiose notions, don't we? (FYI, no one has asked yet for any of my archives. Well, except for my friend JP, who has my black and white JAZZ HANDS show choir gloves in his trophy room. Though, I think this is more out of a out of a sense of parody rather than posterity.)

     The real reason I keep an archive is for my children and their children and all the children that come after. The remnants I have from my ancestors are treasures. Two of the the things most valuable to me is my dad's old baseball glove and small silver bell pendent my mom used to wear when I was little. The smell of the glove leather reminds me of my dad and going to his ball games and I vividly recall playing with my mom's pendent when she would hold me in her arms. Both items are kept in my study and on display so I can see them as often as I like--which is almost everyday. Memories are wonderful but these heirlooms quench all the senses and connect me to the past. I want my descendants to be afforded the same experience. I can imagine my great-great grandchild sitting on the floor playing with the same pine wood derby car my dad helped me build for Cub Scouts when I was a boy. To me, that's gratifying.
     After reconnecting with my biological mother's family I was touched by their heartfelt generosity. During our first meeting I was presented with Rosie's personal photo album and a small silver baby cup bearing her engraved initials. I was told it was a gift to her from an uncle. No longer was Rosie only an abstract idea in my mind; at long last I had a tangible connection to my mother. The emotions at that moment were overwhelming and I wasn't prepared to receive such amazing gifts. This scene was repeated on the morning of my birthday, a week or so ago on September 3rd. 
     Fairly soon after reconnecting earlier this spring, I suggested to my newly found family it might be nice to spend my birthday with them this year at their home in Pennsylvania. As I've written before, I think our reconnecting has been as much about them finding me as me finding them. So, inviting myself to their place didn't seem out of place. They were eager to celebrate and after 45 years of missed birthdays we agreed it was about time. 

Rosie's Baby Book and other items

     My birthday morning began with homemade Belgian waffles by Uncle Jerry, fresh bacon, and an assortment of nfruit toppings. This is my favorite and it was no coincidence. Apparently they had been in contact with my wife the weeks leading up to our visit to make sure they had some of my favorites on hand. How lucky am I? Pretty darn lucky. Later that day we had lasagna and cheesecake for desert. Again, my favorites.
     The highlight of the day, as with any birthday, was opening gifts. And much like the photo album and silver cup, these gifts were personal and very touching. First was a five DVD collection of their family movies, beginning in 1959 through the late 1960's. I've since watched the videos and they contain archive footage of Rosie as a young girl, teenager, and young woman. Among other things, it shows her going to prom, marching in a parade, and playing the piano. It also shows her tearfully opening a box on Christmas morning containing the typewriter she had desperately wanted. It also shows Uncle Jerry gleefully opening a train set from Santa Claus. Also quite moving were the images of my Grandma and Grandpa Higgins hugging, kissing, laughing and holding each other under mistletoe. It also shows vacations, snow storms, croquet, picnics, and a lot of horsing around. In all, it shows a happy family. My family.
     Uncle Jerry then handed me a large overstuffed envelope. I was amazed to discover Rosie's permanent record. That's right, it was her final grade card from high school and other personal paperwork. Sadly, I did not inherit her praiseworthy scholastic abilities. The envelope also included her diploma, class pendent, tassel, and a choir pin. I have the same items from my mom and they will soon all be displayed side by side with their graduation portraits. Two kinds of love, to be sure. 

A lovely card and sentiment

     The item I found most intriguing was Rosie's baby book, kept up by her mother. Many parents, including myself, have started baby books for their children and over time lost track of the books or stopped filling them out altogether. Grandma Higgins did a very nice job filling in most of the book with both the big and small details of Rosie's early years. I think my favorite entry is an outline of Rosie's lefthand and a foot. I can't tell if Rosie attempted to trace it herself when she was a toddler or if Grandma was responsible for the squiggly lines. Either way, it's sweet and beautiful. I was especially touched by the little pink baby bracelet Rosie wore on her wrist in the hospital nursery as a newborn. Then Aunt Kathy handed me a small box and card. She makes greeting cards as a hobby and her handmade birthday wish is quite exquisite. The inscription, even more so: "Dear Todd, Happy Birthday! We are so happy that we can celebrate with you! "Happy Birthday," for every year that we missed with you. We love you. So happy we found you." After drying my eyes I opened the small box to find a silver diamond and opal ring. According to Kathy, it was Rosie's favorite piece of jewelry. Truly a treasure that will be cherished for generations to come. 
     All of these gifts, and most importantly the time I've spent with my biological family, reinforce to me that something has been missing from my life for the past 45 years. In the past I've written my desire to find my biological family was done out of curiosity more than some emotional desire. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I wasn't able to recognize this need in myself as easily as my mom did when she encouraged me to search. Part of my identity has been missing and this was made clear to me during my visit to Pennsylvania. Beyond all the things I received that had belonged to my mother, simply sitting with my family was the biggest blessing. It was wonderful and I especially enjoyed chatting with my cousin Emily. I'm several years older but I feel comfortable enough to say we share common sensibilities. We even talked about Seinfeld, of all the things. Finally, someone in my family who gets me! Clearly, humor comes from nature, not nurture. I can't wait to learn more. 

Uncle Jerry and Aunt Kathy receiving my gifts

     It might be interesting to note that I was not the only one to receive gifts during the visit. To me, at the risk of parsing words, there is a difference between the words "present" and "gift." Presents are wonderful and include items like toys, slippers, jewels, DVD players, or even a new car. Gifts, on the other hand, at least in my mind, should have meaning and reveal heartfelt sentiment. After getting to know him, I was astounded to learn Uncle Jerry, much like myself, used worked in radio. This was during his younger days but he's always had an interest in the history of broadcasting. If fact, growing up north of Dayton in Greenville, Ohio he used to listen regularly to WING-AM. Turns out WING-AM was very first professional radio job and during a station sale of old equipment, I snagged one of the original microphones from the North Main Street studios in downtown Dayton during the 1950's. It's been in my collection ever since and from one radio geek to another, I was happy to pass this mic on to him as a token of my love and appreciation. Maybe someday we'll do a radio show together. That'd be a hoot! 
     My Aunt Kathy has become a very special person to me. Not only is she my aunt but she was good friends with Rosie and for a short time they shared an apartment. I feel a special connection with her because of this and many of the other wonderful things she's shared with me. I will be forever thankful for her love, concern and prayers. I had a special gift in mind but I was afraid it would be too personal too soon in our relationship. However, with encouragement from my wife, I decided to present Kathy my baby blanket and a little lock of hair my mom had kept in my baby book from my first haircut. I know she was deeply moved. Of course, I would've loved to have given this gift to Rosie but it didn't work out that way. Though, I'm sure Rosie approves of the gesture.
     This is how you celebrate a birthday.

You say it's your birthday? Well, it's my birthday, too!

     When I was eight years-old my mom and dad threw me a birthday party and invited every kid who lived within shouting distance of our house. If I am recalling each of those neighborhood friends correctly after forty-six years (which I believe I am), I'd put the number around twenty-five. There were a lot of kids in the old neighborhood and my dad created a grand treasure hunt in the backyard, drew a giant picture of a clown and had us throw beanbags through the mouth, nose and eyes, and even built a balloon/dart board like you'd see at a carnival. My mom, who made and decorated fantastic cakes, fed not only the kids but the parents, too. My parents went all out on my birthdays and I deeply cherish those memories. I can only speak for myself but as an adopted child being reminded frequently how much you are loved goes a long way to quell any lingering feelings of abandonment. Perhaps this is why they went to such efforts.
     I must admit not all birthday memories are as clear. For example, the memories of my fortieth birthday party, a mere six years ago, are considerably hazy. A friend's band was playing at the Dayton Marriott patio bar and another very good friend rented the hotel room adjoining mine. Let's just say we filled two bathtubs full with "beverages" and no one went home thirsty. Again, I remember only bits and pieces. It started with Bad Juan, a tambourine solo on stage, plenty of sweaty hugs, a ride in an RV, and somehow ended in a $50 taxi ride from downtown Dayton back to the Marriott--about a five minute drive. Clearly, I'm a good tipper on my birthday.
     I mention these two parties because without question they are probably my most "memorable" birthday celebrations. I've been lucky enough to have many others with great friends and family but I can honestly say these two were probably the tops. That was until today.
     After reconnecting with my biological family, my Uncle Jerry and Aunt Kathy expressed to me how sometimes when my birthday would come around each year, they, along with my late birth mother Rosemary, would often think about me. They wondered where I was, if I was okay, if I was loved, if I was having a good life, and probably if I was having a happy birthday. This idea floored me. It had never once occurred to me, while I was stuffing my face full of cake or tequila, people I didn't know might be out there wondering about me and missing every single one of my birthday celebrations. And to put a fine point on it; my cause for celebration was a yearly reminder of a regrettable and painful moment in their lives. I understand this feeling. Every year on my dad's birthday in November, I spend time thinking about him and what he meant to me when he was alive. I do this on other days as well but none more than on his birthday. When I considered this I decided the only thing I could do to remedy the situation was to boldly invite myself and my wife to their home in Pennsylvania to celebrate my birthday. I'd like to report today was the most meaningful and beautiful birthday celebration I think I've ever had.
     I promise to write all about it and spill the details of the day's festivities in full but right now I'm still trying to take it all in as it's been, in a word, overwhelming. I truly appreciate every gift I've ever been given in years past and remember many specifically from friends and family quite fondly. Today, however, was one for the record books and I can't wait to share them here on my blog. All I will say tonight, as I wrap up another year of life and begin another, the gifts I received today are shinier, more treasured, and more breathtakingly remarkable, than any I ever remember receiving in my life. Stay tuned. 

I'd like for you to meet someone

Darrel and his lovely wife Terry.

     Typically when you see an online "personal" introduction, it usually involves a proud new mom and dad introducing their newborn child to the world. Technology certainly has made it easier to mass introduce someone instead of sending snapshots to friends and family far and wide. This personal introduction puts a bit of a spin on this "paternal" approach. Instead of a new born, I'd like to introduce every one to my biological father, James "Darrel" Click. With his permission, I've posted a few pictures from his Facebook page. Pictures from his childhood are on the way and I will be adding those as I receive them. 
     Darrel was born in Kentucky and has a twin sister. His family moved to the Dayton area and he graduated from Xenia High School in 1964. In fact, he lived in a home only about 5 minutes from where I live today. He worked for many years as a bulldozer operator for the Great Lakes Dredge and Dock Company, dredging oceans and other bodies of water, in an effort to rebuild land and beaches. He retired several years ago and now owns a successful lawn care company in Sarasota, Florida. Darrel has a daughter and grand children who live in Kentucky, and a step-daughter and step grand-baby who live in Sarasota.  

Darrel and his twin sister, Brenda

     Darrel met my birthmother Rosemary in the summer of 1968. They dated for a few months but like many young relationships do it fizzled out. To be candid, the whole story surrounding my birth and subsequent adoption is still a little sketchy to me. After all, it's been over forty-five years and all I have to go on it what I've been told. I hope to investigate further and connect more of the dots as I progress through this amazing journey. Either way, I'm very happy to report Darrel and I have been speaking almost every week and I've enjoyed getting to know him better. 
     Plans are being made to hopefully meet face to face sometime this fall at my home in Xenia. If it's not too cold, maybe he we can go fishing in Shawnee Park like me and my dad did a few times. Maybe this time I won't need an adult to bait my hook. We'll see. 
     

My Life and the Beautiful Game

     As I've mentioned before in other posts on this blog, much of what I write is to enlighten my newly found biological family about my life and experiences. They've missed so much and in these posts I'm attempting to fill them in on some of the more profound or memorable life moments. For those of you who already know my sorted and bloviated tales, I sincerely beg your indulgence.

For some reason they called me Tank. 

     Right out of the shoot, I must admit I stole the title for this post from Edson Arantes do Nascimento. You might know his better as Pele, perhaps the most legendary soccer player living today. His autobiography is entitled My Life and the Beautiful Game, but it also seemed fitting for this article. Pele, if you didn't know, is Brazilian. and as a child I read everything I could about him. He, and Johnny Bench, were my two childhood sports heroes. This was before youtube and the only way you could see old film footage of his play for the Brazilian National Team was on hard to find VHS tapes or clips on Wide World Sports, which was even more rare given soccer was new to most of America. When I started playing at the age of 8, it was only the second year for the Beavercreek Soccer Association. I remember signing up because some of my classmates were playing and I thought it sounded like fun. I don't know how many BSA teams existed at the time but it was probably less than 15. Now, from the looks of the John Ankeney Soccer Complex in Beavercreek and all the kids I see around town in BSA wear, they probably have around 200. I can't imagine the number of kids who have played in the BSA and in their select program, the Beavercreek Celtics, which began in 1982.
     When I began playing there was no such thing as a "soccer complex." Back in the 1970's we traveled around Beavercreek playing at different sites each week. Fields were located at local schools, churches and a few at Rotary Park, though I think that occurred a few years after the league initially started. Essentially, the goals were made from either 2x4's bolted together or iron piping and were cemented into the ground. As a goalkeeper I ran into one of those immovable posts more than once. Sadly, neither it nor I had any give. Now, goals posts are constructed differently and generally are not cemented into the ground. Things are much safer now for courageous (or stupid, depending on your point of view) goalkeepers.

Lots of padding

     I suppose my coaches put me in the goalkeeper position for the same reason my coaches made me the catcher on the baseball team; area of circumference. Clearly, I took up more real estate than many of my teammates. I was also somewhat fearless and enjoyed the aggressive nature of playing goalkeeper. Plus, I could dropkick the ball to midfield which the coaches appreciated as well. I usually played goalkeeper for 2 quarters, sat out the 3rd quarter and played center midfielder during the 4th quarter. To be honest, I loved playing in the field better. I liked the running, shooting, slide tackling and of course scoring goals. As a midfielder you get to play a lot on both sides of the field, both offense and defense. I remember one game where I took a shot at goal from the middle of the field and scored. It seemed like the longest goal ever, though we were all ten years old and were playing on a smaller than normal field. It was still a thrill. I also remember yelling a referee telling him he stunk and being kicked out of the game. My parents were embarrassed and they made me sit out the next game. But I learned a very valuable lesson that day; not every referee is cut out for officiating. Another memory is when a New York Cosmos player named Ricky Davis came to the soccer fields when they were located on Beaver Valley Road. I was in the middle of a game so my mom managed to get me an autograph. He later went on to become the captain of the U. S. National Team. 

Rick Davis autograph

     I played in the BSA every year through the 9th grade. One year I decided to try football (American football) and hated it. After a week I quit and was placed on a soccer team and never strayed from the beautiful game after that. Sometime in the early 1980's a number of my friends tried out for a new select team called the Beavercreek Celtics. I wanted so badly to tryout but my mom and dad (primarily my dad) said no. I don't know if it was because the fees for playing on the team were too high in his opinion or if there was some other reason but he wouldn't let me try out. It was heartbreaking. I don't know if I would've been good enough to make the team but it really set the course for the rest of my soccer "career." It's no secret that players of any sport will generally improve as they play with and against other players of higher skill. Not playing in the select team program I was relegated to playing in the BSA recreational league throughout my early teens and it was rather lackluster. I was so jealous of my Celtic friends. They had the best uniforms, played in some really neat tournaments, and even won the State Cup one year. I was there watching from the sidelines. Talk about feeling left out. Ouch!
     At some point I made the transition from goalkeeper to midfielder. I recall during an indoor soccer game we were winning handily my coach moved me from goalkeeper to center forward. I ended up scoring a few goals and from then on each game he put me in the goal for a while and then move me to center midfielder. I kept scoring, so when the outdoor season began again I was moved to center midfielder permanently. 

BHS 1985 Reserve "B" team

     In August of 1985 I tried out for the Beavercreek High School soccer team. At the conclusion of the previous season the head coach of the Celtic's select team was named head coach of the Varsity team. The speculation was he would pick his select team players and everyone else would be cut. That didn't happen but every one of his players made one of the four teams. I managed to make the Reserve "B" team and wound up as the starting left back defender--the last line of defense before the goalkeeper. I started every game and rarely sat out. It was a great feeling being part of the team. I worked hard and was thrilled about my future prospects of playing varsity in the next year or so. 
     The following spring most of my teammates who didn't make the Celtic select team were placed on a team called the Hibernians. The coach, a great man who eventually became a great friend named Vern Burk, felt there were many talented players who needed a quality and competitive place to play organized the team. At the time, the BSA did not offer soccer leagues for high schoolers. You either played select soccer in the spring or you didn't play at all. Unfortunately, I was a year older than most of my teammates and was too old to play in the under 16 league. So instead I was put on another team called Captain Crunch and the Funky Bunch. To be honest, most on the team were more concerned with partying than playing soccer. I wasn't happy about the situation and thought being lumped in with this group would severely hurt my chances to make the high school team in the fall. 

No pictures of the Funky Bunch exist
but this seemed fitting. 

     I don't know if being one of the "Funky Bunch" hurt me or not but I was cut from the high school the first week of tryouts. I was crushed. It was the most emotionally painful thing I had experienced thus far in my life. I thought my soccer playing days were over and I sat and did nothing for quite awhile. The only thing that kept me interested in the game was the fact I was working at a local soccer shop. Somehow I managed to get a job at Ryan's Soccer International located in Centerville and I worked there for a few years. Then I got hired at Frye's Soccer Shoppe in Beavercreek and worked there until I left for college. 
     After sulking for a few weeks I decided to dig in and prove to the coaches and my friends I was worthy of playing on the high school team. I talked to Vern Burk, the Hibernians coach, who was also the assistant women's varsity coach, and he got me a job as team manager for the BHS women's team. Along with filling water bottles and making sure the soccer balls were fully inflated, he and the head coach, Andy Bisswurm, gave the opportunity to train the goalkeepers, scrimmage with the team and offer some instruction. I certainly would've preferred playing on the varsity team but it kept me around the game I loved so much. Plus, I learned a bit about coaching and began seeing the game with a different perspective.

News clippings (before the internet)

     In the Spring of 1987, now that my friends were a year older and able to play in the same league I played the year before, many of us were placed on a third tier Celtic team. The top tier Celtic team was made up of the varsity players and few guest players from other area schools. I was also named the team captain and was moved to starting forward. It was a great season--the team finished in second place and I ended the season with 15 goals. Towards the end of the school year the men's soccer coach held a meeting for anyone interested in trying out for the team the following season. After the meeting I stayed and spoke to the head coach and I remember him telling me he had heard about my success on the spring team and told me to keep working. He added, "there's no reason" I couldn't be starting for him in the fall. After he told me that, I thought perhaps the reason I was cut the previous year was because I figured I had it made and wasn't focused or dedicated enough. I was already in the midst of a refocused effort to improve but I dug in even deeper. I knew one my of my weaknesses was my fitness and speed. In an effort to improve I upped my daily running routine to about 5 miles per day and sometimes I would run in my neighborhood dribble my soccer ball. I spent many summer days on the school's practice field running sprints and practicing my skills. Plus, I began a weight training regiment at the high school and was in the best shape of my life. Along with this fitness regiment and practice I figured I had a better than average shot of making the team. In truth, I knew there were players better skilled than me and I only wanted to be on the team to prove them and myself I had the ability to play at a higher level. 

Umbro camp evaluation

     On a lark I decided to try out for the Ohio junior olympic development team. I had no chance of making it but I wanted to see how my skills measured up to some of the better players in the area. As expected I didn't make the team but because I was "under consideration" I gained an invitation to an exclusive soccer camp put on my the Umbro soccer apparel company. The camp, held at Earlham College in Richmond, Indiana was being coached by former English professional players. It was loads of fun and I came away from the camp with many new found skills and load of confidence. 

The Diego Maradonas

     I'd like to say I made the team that fall. I did not. Again, I was cut during the first round of tryouts and the crushing disappointment I felt the previous year was trumped tenfold. I was bewildered by what occurred. So, instead of moping around like I did the year before I decided to coach and volunteered to lead a BSA team we named the Diego Maradonas. It was great fun and it kept me busy, along with returning as the team manager for the women's varsity team. I played more soccer that fall that I likely would've if I'd made the team. Later I would hear from a few who had made the men's varsity team they were surprised I had been cut. Especially so early during the tryout process. I heard a rumor the assistant coach remarked, "If Todd wants to know why he was cut all his has to do is ask." I never asked, and to this day when I see that former coach, who's now the head coach and has been for 25+ years, I've wondered if there was any truth to the rumor. Again, I've never asked. 

In action at LMU

    Surprisingly though, I still managed to be recruited to play at Lincoln Memorial University, a small school in Harrogate, Tennessee. The head coach, a man named Jonas Holdeman, saw me and a few others play in a tournament in Kingsport, TN during the summer of 1988 and offered me a spot on the team. That fall I was part of the team and even got to start a few games here and there. I played only one year of varsity soccer and was thrilled to get the chance to play in a mid-season tournament at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill, the mecca of college soccer. Though we lost both games to two UNC teams it was an amazing experience and one I will never forget. I would've liked to have stayed and played three more years but I decided to go into radio and was eager to get started. I left LMU in the spring. 

Lincoln Memorial University Men's Varsity 1988

     Following my competitive playing days I coached for a few years at Beavercreek as an assistant in the women's program. I also coached a college aged women's team one spring in the early 1990's. I really enjoyed it and to this day prefer watching women's soccer over men's soccer. After that family responsibilities and my burgeoning radio career cut in to my time for coaching and playing. I also gained a bunch of weight during my unhappy marriage which ended in divorce. I coached my son's Kindergarten team but he wasn't real interested in soccer. I would imagine if I had been in better shape and able to play with him more at home in the yard perhaps he would've stuck with it. But we still enjoy the occasional game of FIFA World Cup on the Playstation. 
     Maybe if Mary and I have a child or two who grows to love soccer I'll have to brush of my old Adidas Copa cleats (which I still have incase I'm ever called up to play) and teach them a few things about the game. I think the first thing I'll teach them is that playing and having fun is all that matters and making the team isn't everything.

Lessons in life, parenting and baseball

Larry, the hurler

     Several times over the past month I've sat down with the intention of writing an article about my father Larry Hollst. Each time I've begun writing I opened with a different relevant subject from his life. And and each time I've written about a thousand words and then deleted them. Finding the precise words was tougher than I anticipated and if you knew my dad, then you'd know nothing but preciseness would be acceptable. 

     When he passed away on June 7, 2002 it was unexpected. He and my mom were planning a trip out west and I went over to pick him up so he could go get a rental car. It was about 7:10 A.M. when I arrived and about ten minutes earlier my mom, who was a lunch lady at Beavercreek High School, had left for her last day of work for the school year. Sometime between her leaving and me arriving he collapsed and died. I found him in the family room facedown in his pajamas.

Dad and Grandma Hollst at Northwestern

     My dad and I had a typical father-son relationship; sometimes full of laughter and joy and other times full of arguments and periods of silence. He was a tough act to follow, to be sure. He was a standout athlete in high school who passed up on a tryout with the Cincinnati Reds in favor of attending Northwestern University. He was also a golfer, bowler and basketball star in high school. I, on the other hand, was both a mediocre athlete and scholar. He transferred from Northwestern after a few years and finished his degree in business and marketing at LaSalle Extension University in Chicago and then finally the University of Dayton. He also enlisted in the Army Reserves and served for a number of years as a Staff Sargent, stationed mainly at Fort Meade, Maryland working in "Military Unintelligence," as he laughingly called it. I wasn't cut out for the military, he told me more than once. And I don't think he was referring to my flat feet. I also failed out of Lincoln Memorial University in Harrogate, TN and wound up getting my associates degree at a broadcasting school. Not that there's anything wrong with this route but let's just say my diploma isn't printed on parchment or hanging in a fancy frame like his.
     At times he was very critical of my career choice in broadcasting and said so when I was fired from a few radio jobs. He came from a background where "work" was in fact, work. Though it could be a tough racket, to him radio didn't seem much like work. He was successful businessman who worked in the early days of the computer industry at both NCR and then Univac. He sold both the University of Dayton and Hobart Brothers in Troy, their first mainframe computer system back in the early 1970's. At times I know he bragged about me being in radio but he didn't hold his tongue when things blew-up on me. He also wasn't thrilled with how I struggled mightily early on as a single custodial parent. Again, he had no experience with such things and once told my mom he thought I'd fail and they'd end up raising my son. That didn't happen but I certainly couldn't have done it without the help of my family. Shortly before he passed he and my mom separated. I won't go into the gory details but suffice to say I wasn't happy with him. There was silence. A very long period of silence. Thankfully before he passed we managed to work out some of our issues. After he died, therapy and my wife Mary helped me reconcile the rest. 

Dad at Fort Meade

     Instances and circumstances like these throughout my life had a profound affect on how I viewed our relationship. To me, he wasn't a very emotionally available person. We were friendly and got along and enjoyed each other's company but there was a gap in the level of father/son intimacy. I know this intimacy can exist because I feel it with my own son. Sometimes I think I tell him "I love you" too much or worry about his feelings being hurt by my parental criticisms. I can count the number of times my dad told me loved me on one hand and I vowed to never make son question my love for him. As an adopted child I needed to feel this connection. Adoptees are in the unique position of knowing (hopefully) their adoptive parents chose them and made up their minds to love them. That's a beautiful thing to know but if a young child senses distance from one his or her adoptive parents, it's very easy to internalize the notion that one parent loves them less. It was during my early teens I began recognizing some of the many differences between our personalities and abilities and began blaming myself for not being good enough. My struggles in school and not achieving what I had hoped for athletically added to my feelings of inadequacy.

Me and dad at Stone Mountain in Georgia

   Rest assured though, maturity and therapy helped me realize his inability to emote had nothing to do with me. I know my dad loved me and was proud of me. It just wasn't his style to shower down affection and "atta boys" very often. I also know, through almost 46 years of self-analyzation, I was one child who needed craved attention. I'm sure certain some of it spilled over into my adulthood, as well. I'm guessing it's all part of my desire to be loved and accepted and maybe on some deep intrinsic level it has to do with being adopted. So basically the dynamic was, you had a dad, who was raised during an era when men were told not to show their tender side or share their emotions openly, raising a son who felt deeply, craved attention, and needed to express his emotions accordingly. Obviously we were two very different people and clearly there were going to challenges from the very beginning. Again, I look to my relationship with my own son for verification of this notion. He too feels deeply and I know we relate on a level which was foreign to me and my dad.

Dad being wonderfully ridiculous

     All of that being said...my dad was a great guy who was patient beyond belief. He was a great playmate and taught me the game of baseball inside and out. My greatest childhood memories involve him and me playing baseball, watching baseball, talking baseball, and going to the coin shop to buy baseball cards. He was also a wonderful provider who gave both of his children a good start in life and supported us in anyway we needed. He enjoyed finding the perfect Christmas or birthday gift and threw the best birthday parties for his children. He never told me how to think about politics, religion or anything of that nature and allowed me to make mistakes and recover on my own (or at least try to recover on my own before lending a helping hand.) He was a wonderful grandfather who loved playing trains with his grandson Alex, who today still has memories of grandpa. He came to my soccer games and even drove 300 miles round trip one day so he could watch me start my first game in college. He relished embarrassing me in front of my friends but in a loving way. At my first wedding he played a cassette tape of me singing "She's Like the Wind" by Patrick Swayze; at times he was wonderfully ridiculous. He stuck up for me and stood by me and somehow knew exactly which was needed at the time. I wish he'd been alive to meet my wife Mary. He would've loved her for who she is as a person and loved her even more for loving me. And I wish, more than anything, he was here for my mom. 

Alex and dad playing hoops

     He was a great man, a great dad and a great grandpa. And when Mary and I have children of our own I look forward to telling them about their Grandpa Hollst. One of the last things we did together was go on a road trip to the National Baseball Hall of Fame. It was a memorable trip and we spent a lot of time talking as we drove the many miles to Cooperstown, NY. We went in June of 2001 during a rare break from my Dayton Dragons schedule as the Director of Entertainment during the Inaugural Season. He never said so, but I think he was proud of the fact a Hollst was finally drawing a paycheck from a professional baseball club. Even if, instead of hitting home runs or catching a full 9 innings, I was overseeing the launching of hot dogs and t-shirts. He went to several games that season and I know it made him smile. It made me smile. 

Branching out on my family tree

Thomas Patrick Higgins

     On September 6, 1885 in Auglaize County, Ohio Thomas Patrick Higgins was born to Michael and Mary Higgins. His grandfather, Michael Higgins Sr., immigrated to America from Ireland and arrived in New York City on August 25, 1849. This was during the Great Famine of Ireland when more than a million Irish people died and another million fled and immigrated from Ireland.

Michael Meyers

     On September 15, 1885 Mihaly Mayersky was born in Bresburg, Hungary, but considered himself Austrian, as he was born on the border between the two countries. Little is known about his life in eastern Europe, but Mihaly, who later changed his name to Michael Meyers, came to America on a ship called the Chemnitz and arrived in New York City on October 19, 1906.
     Both of these men, born nine days apart, are great-grandfathers of mine: Michael, on my dad's side, and Thomas Patrick, on my biological mother's side. And both men worked hard for their families and found a home in the up and coming manufacturing center of Dayton, Ohio. 
     After arriving in Dayton, Michael secured a manufacturing job, bought a house on Kiser St., and would eventually work for the Mutual Manufacturing Company. Some time in the 1920's he began working as a laborer at the Requarth Lumber Company. He received his American Citizenship in April of 1939 and was eventually promoted at Requarth to lumberyard foreman. He no doubt had a hand in helping convert the factory to support the war efforts during the Second World War.

Requarth Lumber, circa 1925

     Thomas Higgins moved to Dayton shortly before 1910 and was a machinist and tool maker by trade. He worked for a number of local companies including Delco and the Davis Sewing Machine Company of Dayton. Davis initially made treadle sewing machines for Sears and Roebuck but around 1892 they also began making bicycles. Sewing machine manufacturing was eventually phased out and the company began making bicycles exclusively. It was renamed Huffy Corporation. (As an aside, late last year before finding my biological family I purchased an Antique Davis Sewing Machine made in Dayton. Though I could likely never prove it, it's possible Thomas Patrick worked on or made parts for the very machine in my foyer).

Davis Treadle Sewing Machine, circa 1910

     The 1920 Census records show the families of Michael and Thomas living approximately nine minutes from each other separated by only a few city blocks and the Mad River in northeast Dayton near downtown. Michael and his wife Theresa, who married in 1907, had nine children, including five boys and four girls, and they were all raised as devout Catholics. Thomas and his wife, Maude, also both Catholic, reared four boys of their own, though only two would survive to adulthood. There's no family account or historical record to date which indicates Michael or Thomas knew each other. However, St. Joseph Church, erected in 1910, was and remains the closest Catholic church situated between where the two families. It's reasonable to suggest at some point the two men (or their families) may have interacted at some point. 

St. Joseph Church

     Higgins family tradition tells the tale of Thomas being a football player who played in the industrial league of Dayton in the late 1910's. The league, formed by three downtown factories, consisted of teams from The Dayton Metal Products Company, the Domestic Engineering Company, and the Dayton Engineering Laboratories Company, better known by their acronym, DELCO. The recreational league played games for local crowds and played many of their games at Triangle Park. Of course, this is where the first recognized NFL game was played between the Dayton Triangles, made up of players from the three factories, and the Columbus Panhandles. There are rumors Thomas may have played at the semi-professional level but historical records are slim and this claim cannot be supported as of yet. However, a picture from a newspaper article showing Thomas wearing his football uniform is known to exist and efforts are being made to track this photo down. 

Calvary Cemetery

     Sometime in late 1922, Thomas was rocking his son John on the front porch of their Watts Ave. home in Dayton. A storm was brewing over Dayton that evening and lightning struck very near the home. Thomas and John were indirectly hit by the jolt of electricity. Already struggling with diabetes, Thomas' health quickly deteriorated over the next several months and he passed away on January 31, 1923. His son John survived the incident but was forever changed by the experience. Thomas was buried in the rolling hills of Calvary Cemetery in Dayton, overlooking the city and the Great Miami River. 

     On November 1, 1943 Michael was rushed to the hospital with severe stomach pain and was diagnosed with a ruptured duodenal ulcer. A few days later while receiving care at Good Samaritan Hospital, peritonitis set in and he eventually died of infection on November 8. He too, was buried in Calvary Cemetery--a mere 500 feet from Thomas Patrick Higgins.
     Since reconnecting with my biological family and researching their ancestry, I am constantly amazed by the similarities and coincidences I encounter between family lines. Beyond the similarities described between my birth mother and adoptive dad's immigrant families, I have discovered other links that go back much further in the history of my adoptive and biological families.

General Washington at Valley Forge

     On both my adoptive mom's side and my birth father's side, their families came to America in 16th and 17th Century, respectively, and men from both families fought for freedom and security in both the French and Indian War and the American Revolution. According to historic archives, both my sixth great-grandfather Jacob Hoover (on my mom's side), and my sixth great-grandfather John Combs Sr. (on my birth father's side), were members of the Continental Army. In fact, both are believed to have spent the winter of 1777-1778 encamped at the Valley Forge. Jacob in the German Regiment, and John in Scott's Brigade, as part of the 12th Virginia. Prior to the American Revolution, both served in the Colonial Army under General Braddock, and Jacob himself was witness to Braddock's death at the Battle of Monongahella in 1775. At the time, he was under direct command by the General and was a wagoner.
     When I contemplate the historical timelines of my four parental ancestral lines, I am amazed by how closely they parallel--even if separated by 100 or 200 years. While I've never been one to attribute such coincidences to anything more than chance, I can't help but to think these discoveries have been waiting for me to uncover them at the appropriate time. While I may be the one common branch, or knot as it were, the and proud and colorful history of our family tree will be forever linked and gratefully shared with generations to come as it grows richer and fuller through time. It is for those who come after, I dedicate this work.