In the previous chapters I have written about my dad and his passion for the Chicago Bears. They were his Juliet. They were the very oxygen he breathed. Quite literally, my dad could wear something with a Bear logo on it daily for months without repeating an outfit. He bled orange and blue. To Joseph Robert Connolly the Bears were the one thing that always gave him happiness. Sometimes to a point of distraction to life itself. I say that with understanding, not resentment.
Through frustrating losses and pathetic seasons my dad was a Homer, a loyalist! If the team didn't win a game for an entire season he would be there to cheer them on.To an Irishman, loyalty and commitment to a cause is as thick as blood itself. He took that loyalty to heaven with him. While he was here he taught me that loyalty to friends is unshakable and unbreakable. I live with that loyalty to those I love, almost to a fault.
I may repeat some bits and pieces about my dad here, but forgive me if I do. He is heavy on my heart today. The game against the Seattle Seahawks is more than just a playoff game in my world. It is part of the final act of the season he lived and died in. He is also a permanent part of the Bear's legacy and Soldier Field itself, as you soon will know. The Bears were a part of our last conversation before he went to meet Walter, Halas, Piccolo and all the other great Bears that have long since past.
My dad was a season ticket holder from the days when they played on Pulaski Street, Wrigley Field and Soldier Field. I started going when I was a wee boy. It was a frigid day at my first game and we ate bologna sandwiches in the parking lot. We always had great parking at the games. My dad always "knew a guy." The Bears were no exception. It was Porky, a city of Chicago event employee, who would bend the rules and move a sawhorse to allow my Dad to park right next to the stadium. As a kid I was amazed as Porky let us drive right through. My pops gave him a special "handshake" to thank him for the favor he had done.
Our seats were in the north end zone in the 130's section, straight between the goal post and about 30 rows underneath the giant scoreboard. I would be dressed in a snow mobile suit provided by my dad that was packed with about 12 beers. I was a mule, a runner at the tender age of 6. I would waddle up to our seats, heavy laden and lumpy. I was a miniature beer Michelin Man. As I approached our section the cat calls would begin. "Oh No! It's the kiss of death!" This was a nickname I held for years because every time I went to the game the Bears would lose! After the first few losses I really began to think I WAS A CURSE! They were right! I was too young to realize they just plain stunk.
It was at these early games that I tasted pepperoni for the first time. An Italian buddy named Lou always brought a huge bag of the stuff and I couldn't get enough of it. When I would come to games in my young days, Lou would shout out to me as I climbed the stairs, "Hey Tommy, I brought you some pepperonis!" After I plunked myself down in my seat the beer stash would be unloaded from my overfilled winter wear and distributed to the "crew." In those early days the seats were wooden planks, scaffolding actually, and if you dropped something it fell 3 stories to the gravel below. This was perfect for cleaning up the evidence of our smuggled contraband.
Transistor radio tucked in pocket, and ear piece shoved in ear, my dad would escape into football heaven. I was just learning the game. I would watch my dad during the game and see his face light up at a rare touchdown or turn beet red at a fumble or interception. I enjoyed just staring at his contentment at where he was in the moment. His love for the team transferred over to me easily and we enjoyed many, many games together.
By the time I got older, tailgating was a ritual my dad reveled in. There were multi-grill cooking stations and a seemingly endless variety of meats and snacks for all to enjoy prior to the game. He would later be known for the "Bobby Burger", a hamburger mixture that was accented with a ring of pineapple on top. He would invite brother fans into our camp to enjoy a burger or beer at will. He loved anyone who loved his team.
When he was nearing the end of his season here, I told him that I would take some of his ashes back to Ireland and also sprinkle him on Soldier Field. He cried at the thought. They were endearing tears, filled with the love of his team and thanks for the permanent gesture. He passed on July 21, 2010. His last intelligible words to me were "Don't forget the Bears game is on tonight..." They were not playing but I just kissed him on the cheek and said, "I will Dad." It hurt thinking about his words for awhile after he passed. Now I hold the deepest gratitude that those simple words were his last to me and a testament to his love for me and his team.
On November 17, 2010 the Bears faced off against the Seahawks. I had 2 vials of my dad's ashes with me. One was to be sprinkled where we tailgated, the other on the field. I knew that it was against the law to sprinkle ashes on the field, but a night in county jail was the price I was more than willing to pay for making my Dad a permanent part of the place he loved so much. That Irish loyalty to my dather would not be broken, no matter what the consequences. He laid his ass on the line for me a million times. A night in jail was not foreign to me and his final tribute would be completed at any cost.
My uncle Bob took his seat inside while I made my way to the museum parking lot where so many memories live. A bus staging area now inhabits our original tailgating land claim. Over the years we sometimes had to move to another spot if an earlier bird staked claim to our spot before our arrival. A small row of trees lines McFetridge at Lake Shore Drive. I went over to a spot we once used for our pregame party and introduced myself to the revelers there, announcing my intentions. They found the tribute poignant and held hands around the tree as I gingerly poured my father's dusty remains under it. I said a prayer. They took a picture and cheered in my father's honor. Now for the complicated part, the field mission.
I made my way into the stadium and down to the field. Security staff lined the sidelines and end zones, spaced out about every 30 yards. I told a gentleman my plan and he said I should work my way down the aisle centered between 2 of the field security agents. I was shaking and knew arrest was possible, if not likely. As I made my way through the front row, honing in on my drop point, I kicked over the beer of an already drunken fan. I apologized and explained my intent. His reply was, "That's illegal you know." I was shocked and angered by his insensitivity and shot back, "So is drinking and driving!" I gave his buddy 10 bucks to cover damages to his friend and continued on.
Now situated between the two field watchdogs I was thrilled to feel the wind at my back coming off the lake. God was lending me a hand. I darted my eyes back and forth between the two gentleman and uncapped the second vial. When they were both looking away I tossed my father's ashes, letting the lake breeze do the rest. My mission completed, I said an I love you to my dad and ran up the aisle into the crowd. Certain that I may have been seen, I removed my coat and put on a cap to change my look. Irish cunning at it's finest. I slipped into the masses and made my way back to my uncle Bob and sat in my dad's seat. I was overcome with elation and adrenalin.
As the F-15's roared overhead my uncle Bob and I hugged. My dad was a proud Vet. I looked around for security closing in but they never arrived. I remember little of the game, beyond the fact that we lost by a few points. I spent the game reliving the many memories I had shared with my dad in the beautiful stadium and pictured him smiling down from heaven at a job well done.
I knew we would make the playoffs this year. It was the year for my dad. Many FB friends can recollect the predictions my dad was sending me from beyond during the regular season. He was right most of the time. The game tomorrow against the Seahawks will be won by the Bears. It is as simple as that. They may not make it to the Superbowl but in my heart I truly think they will. The line from my Pop on the game: Bears 24, Seahawks 17.
As I finish up here I am sitting in my dad's favorite robe, wearing a pair of his many Bear pajama pants. He is with me always. The tears have spilled out and give me relief. I don't cry often and when I do it seems to relieve a mountain of pent up stress. Win or lose, I know my Dad is enjoying his new life above and hanging with the "Bear Crew". Remember, I said this is HIS season.
On one last note always remember that we really only have today. Our family and friends can be gone in an instant. So can we. If there is a family member or friend who you are on the outs with CALL THEM. It may be your last conversation. Life is too short for anger and resentment. The years of not talking to a friend or loved one can most likely be traced back to a silly or insignificant disagreement. You may have even forgotten what the disagreement was about. Don't leave this earth with "I shoulda's and coulda's!" Forgive! Live! Living life free of enemies and resentments is liberating and contenting. Pick up the phone now! Remember today is a gift, that's why it's called the present! Go Bears! Dad, I love you! Thanks for taking me to all those games and sharing your passion with me. I am a proud Bear fan and your grateful son!
Showing posts with label 85 Superbowl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 85 Superbowl. Show all posts
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Excuse Me? Is There an ENABLER In The House?
I've told you bits and pieces of my family life in previous chapters. There are happy stories and tragic ones, but all of them have a message. That message is don't give up hope! Keep the faith! If you haven't found God, not to worry, he isn't lost. Start out with a simple hello. He already knows who you are. Then pray and talk to him with the deepest of sincerity and you will find the more you turn to him, the more you will feel his guidance and presence. I know I would not be sober or writing this blog if it wasn't for the relationship I have with the Lord. The comedy and acting skills he blessed me with are to be used to glorify his touching my life. He is, "I am."
I skipped from the beginning of my father's life with my mom, sister and me to the end of his life. Now we take a stop in the middle.
I was the only boy and baby of the family with a combined sister count of four. Being the only son had its advantages with my father. I went to my first Bear game at age 5 or 6. I vividly recall Dick Butkus hitting a guy so hard you could hear the crunch from our seats in the north end zone. As a youngster I saw Joe Namath and O.J. Simpson at the end of their careers and all of Walter Payton's. I was with my dad for the 1985 Superbowl season and 1988's loss to the Niners. I truly don't know how many Bear games we saw together but it was quite a few and it was a place I could tell my dad was truly happy. There was the snow falling from heaven during the NFC championship against the Giants and the "Fog Bowl" against the Eagles. The first game after 9/11 was the heaviest. We both cried like babies as they unfurled a field sized American flag across the stadium while F-15's roared overhead. When the new stadium was built our run ended with the personal seat licensing and my dad passed the tickets on to my Uncle Bob.
I missed a few seasons in between. I couldn't pay for the licensing seats because I was too busy spending my money on booze, dope and whoever wanted to do booze and dope with me. I have spoken about the lengths an addict will go to to keep the run going. Please remember when I say the addict I am the "THE." It doesn't mean we don't love people or care about their feelings. It's just that the power of addiction over our minds, bodies and souls is so domineering we often turn off our morality button to reach our goal of getting high.
The key player in the perpetuation of alcoholic or addiction insanity is the enabler. The word enable implies the weak and timid, easily manipulated and a complete pushover. It means in brief "to supply the means," as listed in the American Heritage Dictionary. Enablers are usually the ones who love the addict the most and is filled with the most hope that someday things will be different. They are moms and dads, sisters and brothers, husbands and wives, friends and neighbors. They are sometimes obvious in their efforts and sometimes stealthy, dealing under the table.
Their intentions are pure but can be destructive in the end, not to just the user but the one who enables them. The pain of letting someone they love down, hurts them so they give in knowing it is wrong. The anger of withdrawal is frightening so they pacify. The hateful words or disinterest of the user makes them try to buy their approval and love. They hand out money, food or shelter not knowing if that hand out is going to be the one that kills or saves the user. Ultimately it is just another time in a merry-go-round of negative encouragement.
My dad was my enabler. He was there when I needed him. Whether it was for some cash or a car, he was the guy who saved my ass over and over. I took it for granted that he would always be there to clean up the shit I left behind. I worked for him on and off while crawling through 9 years of college. I didn't go 9 years straight. That was impossible for my addictive nature. I went for a year and a half to ISU. When the heat was ready to come down on me from the law or Academic Probation I skated back to Daddy. I transferred to Columbia College Chicago and attended, on and off, until graduating in 1992. I paid my ticket through student loans. I thought it was free money. I have paid the government back the $18,000 dollars I borrowed for my education. The $26,000 I owe them in interest, for all my years of neglect, won't be forgiven. Student loans come with no deal making. The government does not enable, at least where student loans are concerned.
If I was short of cash I would hit Dad up for a "loan." Those loans were rarely, if ever, paid back. He helped me move when a marriage or 3 failed. He did whatever he could to help me because of his love for me. I didn't see it that way. The addict thinks family and society owe them the money for injustices real or perceived from our earliest recollections. We had it coming! Suckers! That seems crass but when we need to use our hearts and minds focus on getting high. The kindness of the enabler is overlooked instantly by the obsession of the score.
By 1996 I was a fall down drunk and my father's good spirited giving ended. He arrived at my apartment after a girlfriend couldn't rouse me from a stupor. He slapped me awake, crumpled up a $100 dollar bill and dropped it in my lap saying, "That's it! The end of the line. You are no longer my son!" The words hurt long enough for me to realize I had a Ben Franklin and could get more vodka. We didn't speak for quite awhile after that. Messages were past from family or employees to check on each others well being.
In March of 1999 I called him begging that he take me to rehab. Initially he refused. I don't blame him. I was a drunken liar and thief. He did call back an hour later saying he was on the way and his charity got me to the hospital I so desperately needed. He didn't visit me in detox or for my loony bin stay, but Mom #2 stopped by every few days to bring me smokes, magazines, socks and undies. She was amazing. On family night none of my family came. I had used and abused them to the point of disconnect. Funny thing is that my dealers and bartenders didn't show up either. They had always said we were family.
My father and I built our relationship back up again, but he no longer enabled me. He helped where he could, but if I slipped off track he let me fall right on my face. It was tough love until I got the picture and started to fly right. There were ups and downs like any family dynamic, but I was able to make reparations toward the end of his life for the damage and manipulation I had laid on him. We spoke of my specific wrongs and I cleared away the damage of my past behaviors.
Toward the end, during one of his stays at a home, he made the comment that he had saved my ass now I was cleaning his. We both laughed but I was grateful that I had the chance to right my wrongs. If you enable, the choices are tough and there is not a one size fits all explanation on how to handle it. I was lucky. I had a chance to make peace and be useful to my father at the end of his life. If you are a user your time may be running out to make things right. Think about it. I was one of the lucky ones who got a chance at redemption. You can have it too starting one day at a time. Today looks good!
I skipped from the beginning of my father's life with my mom, sister and me to the end of his life. Now we take a stop in the middle.
I was the only boy and baby of the family with a combined sister count of four. Being the only son had its advantages with my father. I went to my first Bear game at age 5 or 6. I vividly recall Dick Butkus hitting a guy so hard you could hear the crunch from our seats in the north end zone. As a youngster I saw Joe Namath and O.J. Simpson at the end of their careers and all of Walter Payton's. I was with my dad for the 1985 Superbowl season and 1988's loss to the Niners. I truly don't know how many Bear games we saw together but it was quite a few and it was a place I could tell my dad was truly happy. There was the snow falling from heaven during the NFC championship against the Giants and the "Fog Bowl" against the Eagles. The first game after 9/11 was the heaviest. We both cried like babies as they unfurled a field sized American flag across the stadium while F-15's roared overhead. When the new stadium was built our run ended with the personal seat licensing and my dad passed the tickets on to my Uncle Bob.
I missed a few seasons in between. I couldn't pay for the licensing seats because I was too busy spending my money on booze, dope and whoever wanted to do booze and dope with me. I have spoken about the lengths an addict will go to to keep the run going. Please remember when I say the addict I am the "THE." It doesn't mean we don't love people or care about their feelings. It's just that the power of addiction over our minds, bodies and souls is so domineering we often turn off our morality button to reach our goal of getting high.
The key player in the perpetuation of alcoholic or addiction insanity is the enabler. The word enable implies the weak and timid, easily manipulated and a complete pushover. It means in brief "to supply the means," as listed in the American Heritage Dictionary. Enablers are usually the ones who love the addict the most and is filled with the most hope that someday things will be different. They are moms and dads, sisters and brothers, husbands and wives, friends and neighbors. They are sometimes obvious in their efforts and sometimes stealthy, dealing under the table.
Their intentions are pure but can be destructive in the end, not to just the user but the one who enables them. The pain of letting someone they love down, hurts them so they give in knowing it is wrong. The anger of withdrawal is frightening so they pacify. The hateful words or disinterest of the user makes them try to buy their approval and love. They hand out money, food or shelter not knowing if that hand out is going to be the one that kills or saves the user. Ultimately it is just another time in a merry-go-round of negative encouragement.
My dad was my enabler. He was there when I needed him. Whether it was for some cash or a car, he was the guy who saved my ass over and over. I took it for granted that he would always be there to clean up the shit I left behind. I worked for him on and off while crawling through 9 years of college. I didn't go 9 years straight. That was impossible for my addictive nature. I went for a year and a half to ISU. When the heat was ready to come down on me from the law or Academic Probation I skated back to Daddy. I transferred to Columbia College Chicago and attended, on and off, until graduating in 1992. I paid my ticket through student loans. I thought it was free money. I have paid the government back the $18,000 dollars I borrowed for my education. The $26,000 I owe them in interest, for all my years of neglect, won't be forgiven. Student loans come with no deal making. The government does not enable, at least where student loans are concerned.
If I was short of cash I would hit Dad up for a "loan." Those loans were rarely, if ever, paid back. He helped me move when a marriage or 3 failed. He did whatever he could to help me because of his love for me. I didn't see it that way. The addict thinks family and society owe them the money for injustices real or perceived from our earliest recollections. We had it coming! Suckers! That seems crass but when we need to use our hearts and minds focus on getting high. The kindness of the enabler is overlooked instantly by the obsession of the score.
By 1996 I was a fall down drunk and my father's good spirited giving ended. He arrived at my apartment after a girlfriend couldn't rouse me from a stupor. He slapped me awake, crumpled up a $100 dollar bill and dropped it in my lap saying, "That's it! The end of the line. You are no longer my son!" The words hurt long enough for me to realize I had a Ben Franklin and could get more vodka. We didn't speak for quite awhile after that. Messages were past from family or employees to check on each others well being.
In March of 1999 I called him begging that he take me to rehab. Initially he refused. I don't blame him. I was a drunken liar and thief. He did call back an hour later saying he was on the way and his charity got me to the hospital I so desperately needed. He didn't visit me in detox or for my loony bin stay, but Mom #2 stopped by every few days to bring me smokes, magazines, socks and undies. She was amazing. On family night none of my family came. I had used and abused them to the point of disconnect. Funny thing is that my dealers and bartenders didn't show up either. They had always said we were family.
My father and I built our relationship back up again, but he no longer enabled me. He helped where he could, but if I slipped off track he let me fall right on my face. It was tough love until I got the picture and started to fly right. There were ups and downs like any family dynamic, but I was able to make reparations toward the end of his life for the damage and manipulation I had laid on him. We spoke of my specific wrongs and I cleared away the damage of my past behaviors.
Toward the end, during one of his stays at a home, he made the comment that he had saved my ass now I was cleaning his. We both laughed but I was grateful that I had the chance to right my wrongs. If you enable, the choices are tough and there is not a one size fits all explanation on how to handle it. I was lucky. I had a chance to make peace and be useful to my father at the end of his life. If you are a user your time may be running out to make things right. Think about it. I was one of the lucky ones who got a chance at redemption. You can have it too starting one day at a time. Today looks good!
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