Father's Day

by Buzz Bissinger

  —Zach, would you like to come?

  —Is Gerry going?

  —Gerry is going.

  —I’d like to go.

  It is not the answer I expected.

  He will hate the flight. He will end up glued to the ceiling somewhere. Or somehow work his way into the cockpit in a pocket of severe turbulence and ask the captain if he always wears a hat to work. Or go up and down the aisles asking all the passengers their birthdays.

  —It’s twenty hours, Zach.

  —That’s okay.

  —I’m worried it will be very hard for you.

  —I’ll be good.

  —Plus you won’t know anyone in South Africa.

  —I’ll know Caleb.

  —Can you really sit still for that long?

  —I’ll sit still I promise.

  He no longer wants to be left behind. He is part of the family, and he doesn’t want to be excluded from anything we do because of his disabilities. It is important to him. I can tell from the tone of his voice, a quiet yearning to be further liberated from the assumptions I have so often made about him.

  When we go to South Africa this April, Zach will be with us. It will not be easy. I have talked with him about ways to handle the first leg in particular, sixteen hours to Johannesburg: sleep for as long as he can since the plane leaves at night; play Angry Birds, which he has recently discovered, on my iPad; bring along his favorite film, Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, to watch on my computer. I will also call his doctor and try to get enough Ambien to lull a herd of elephants to sleep.

  Gerry will sit next to him in coach and help him when he struggles. It is a reflection of his protectiveness over Zach and his ability to cut off his brother’s penchant for pestering when he becomes antsy.

  It is also a reflection of the career path Gerry has chosen after getting his master’s in education from Penn: being a full-time elementary school teacher in the Haddonfield school system teaching fourth grade, as well as going nights to Temple University for his PhD in educational administration to fulfill the goal of being a principal.

  So I don’t actually worry about the effect of the travel on Zach. But if Gerry thought two weeks with Zach in a car traversing from east to west would be a very long time, wait until he sits next to him for twenty hours.

  Zach excitedly tells people he is going to South Africa to “see my brother Caleb and some animals.” Which is also his way of saying that he is ready to make a gigantic leap beyond the borders of the familiar. When we drove to Los Angeles, the familiar excited him the most. His eagerness to loosen his grip on the repeated rituals of his life, to face the unknown in a place unknown to him, is the best Christmas present I have ever received.

  He has also made strides in his work life. He still has his part-time job at the supermarket bagging groceries. I have yet to watch him in the actual process because I know I could never bear it. But Gerry recently saw him at work and came back excited to report that his brother is amazingly fast and focused. Much like he learned to play Super Mario Brothers by memorizing all the moves.

  Zach left the part-time gig at the law firm. Much of what he did there was outsourced. The powers that be were kind and decent to still keep him on, but he was consigned to the basement with little to do.

  Nine months ago he began working two days a week at the Philadelphia Daily News as an office clerk. He delivers interoffice mail and stocks supplies and changes the water cooler. He knew just about everyone at the paper beforehand because of his long history with the Daily News and the Inquirer. I was concerned that the job would be a dip back into too much of an old shoe for Zach and turn into a social event. But he works with head-down diligence. The very bald head of the executive editor, Larry Platt, remains untouched. He doesn’t dawdle at the desks of the reporters and editors, except to wish someone a happy birthday.

  When Zach worked at the law firm, he always said the job was fine, no matter how much or how little he was actually occupied. He never showed any initiative to do more because of his fear of novelty.

  The opposite is true at the Daily News. He recently expressed interest in answering the phones when somebody calls the main number in the newsroom. It will be a complicated task for Zach because of the mechanics of transferring calls as well as the intricacies of directing the caller to the right department. But given the eternal gruffness of newsrooms, a reporter friend pointed out, “he couldn’t possibly do worse than it already is.”

  Just as he showed on the trip, Zach still seizes life with joy, the promise of good things to come. Nor has he lost his innocence.

  The night before Christmas, he made sure a glass of milk and a plate of cookies were left by the fireplace for Santa Claus. Zach is twenty-eight now, and I grilled him about whether he really believes there is a Santa who stuffs himself down the chimney with presents. I tried from every angle. He still clung to his conviction, although I did stump him.

  —How come sometimes when you go to the mall you see two Santas?

  —Maybe they’re brothers.

  Touché.

  I wonder if Zach really thinks there is a Santa Claus but believes more in what the myth represents, the power of possibility in life and the thirst to transform it into reality. It is the credo by which he lives.

  With each passing year, Zach becomes more perceptive. His social grace has exceeded my every expectation. A marriage counselor—and trust me, there have been many—once told me that the best barometer of future history is past history. But Zach tears up his history every day.

  He came into the world covered in all that glistening blood, unable to breathe, kept alive by the metallic machines and monitors of medicine. But those tiny brown eyes were open, and if you looked into those eyes, you could see even then the steel of his soul, the belief in the possible.

  There is no rose-colored ending to any of this. There is no pretty little package with a tidy bow. He will never drive a car. He will never marry. He will never have children. I still fear for his future. I still think of him sitting alone one day under a naked bulb in the freezing light. He is not the child I wanted. But he is no longer a child anyway. He is a man, the most fearless I have ever known, friendly, funny, freaky, unfathomable, forgiving, fantastic, restoring the faith of a father in all that can be.

  Zach’s Acknowledgments

  (As dictated to his father)

  Well I am thankful for all the people in the world who have done so much for me.

  Family okay so you Buzz Bissinger Paul Nussbaum Molly Nussbaum Matt Nussbaum Gerry Bissinger because he’s my twin brother Lisa Smith Caleb Bissinger oh my mom Deb Nussbaum because she’s done so much for me like she arranges all my activities how about Mark and Annie and Sarah Grandma Laine okay Uncle Mike and Susan and Barrett and Nick and David oh and Alexander and even though I’ll never see him again Grandpa Stone because he married his dead wife’s nurse uh trying to think Goggie and Ellie they died Uncle Bobo because he’s been great to me I’ve known him since I was born he had me to his pool Winkie and Peggy because Winkie is very funny he hates the dog and I do want Muff and Sally and Larry.

  Friends whom I am thankful for Shanna and Christy and Maria and Michelle Joan Clark and Marvin oh and Amy Cooper I like a lot and Neal Hinshillwood and Carolyn Beulah she drives me to ShopRite.

  Okay let’s put from the paper Larry Platt Greg Osberg um Gar Joseph Lorenzo Signe Wilkinson Stu Bykofsky you know who else Molly Eichel and Ellen Gray because I see those people yeah Denise Gallo Dan Rodgers Rob Copes who I used to work with.

  At the Inquirer there is Allison Steele Andy Maykuth Tony Auth Rick Nichols Mike Vitez and Maureen Fitzgerald Martha Woodall Dan Rubin Karen Heller I like Mike Leary Vernon Loeb I like all the wonderful things he’s done like take me for car rides and had me overnight to his house October 4 of ’09 Linda Lloyd oh yeah Bill Marimow I like Bill Marimow because he e-mails with me Brian Tierney because remember that time he took me up to his office it was on his birthday twenty-first of Febr
uary ’07 Paul Davies because he would ride the train with me you know who also I like Walter Naedele because he would ride the train with me.

  I am thankful for these other friends okay Fen Montaigne Steve Lopez Lymans the Chavezes I’m trying to think of who else Patty Loeb the Eichels yeah Joey Logan Steve Stecklow yup Larry Ceisler and Lina yup well what makes them such special friends Larry has been great to me he’s had me to his office party I’ve been up to his office a lot the Cardamones and the Hirshorns and the Hasses and the Hankins because Art took me flying in his plane Sarah Neil Oxman Kevin Feeley Arthur Makadon because he was so great to me he bought me that blazer for my twenty-fifth birthday August 21 of ’08 another person we should put in there is Lois Blinkhorn Dave Taylor Doug Robinson and Arlene Nancy Cooney the Bonettes and the O’Donnells the Manochis the Beltons the Weinsteins and the Potts who used to live in Haddonfield and Bill Getman he’s the pastor at First Presbyterian where I’m a deacon and Mister Claus I remember Dad talked to his class he did it twice December 13 2004 and September 20 ’05 Dave Payne that’s it for now.

  Buzz’s Acknowledgments

  First and foremost comes my editor at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, Eamon Dolan. We have now worked on three books together. Father’s Day was by far the most challenging because it was such a departure from my usual work. I needed help, quite desperately at times. With Eamon as fastidious editor and wordsmith and conceptualist (some chapters had more of his comments than they did my own words), what began as an earnest but rudderless first draft became a book. I loved Eamon. I hated him when he disagreed with me even though he was ultimately right. Frustrated at the pace of my writing, I tried to bait him into fights. He never bit but on several occasions he gently and firmly told me to grow the hell up.

  The rest of the Houghton team shepherding the book, Executive Director of Publicity Lori Glazer, Senior Publicity Manager Megan Wilson, and Marketing Director Carla Gray, were wholly dedicated, hard-working, and fun in an industry not known much anymore for its joie de vivre. They restored my faith that publishing, while facing radical change like all creative forms, is hardly moribund.

  My film agent, Ari Emanuel, is the biggest pain in the ass I have ever met. He makes the Ari Gold character in Entourage, based upon him, seem gentle and considerate. But every month for four years until the book was completed, he called to make sure I was not letting go of it (his words were slightly more pungent). I think what spurred me to finally finish was the peace and quiet of Ari not yelling at me. I also do not think I ever would have completed it without him. My literary agent, Eric Siminoff, was equally devoted to the book. Pete Berg, the brother I never had, also gave me great support. So did my therapist, Penny Stark. I must also include Steve Fried and the amazing Beth Kephart.

  My wife, Lisa, was a staunch advocate. My son Gerry was a prince, giving of his time and forthright. He understood completely when I told him I did not want him to read the book until it was finished so as not to censor my heart. He too is a beautiful person inside and out, and I am more than proud of him. My son Caleb, despite being just twenty, may be the wisest person I know. We shared many conversations about the book and his instincts were sharp and insightful. He had no problem telling me to “chill out” when I was going off the rails, a recurrent theme in my life. I also must thank my sister, Annie, for her strength and absolute dedication as we both watched our parents die back to back. We had our moments because of the indescribable pain and stress. But Annie never quit and never wavered. She was literally side by side with my mother at the end and made her final months as happy and serene as they could possibly be. So did the saintly Albertha.

  I am also indebted to Debra Nussbaum and her husband, Paul. Deb is a marvel; every day she works to make Zach’s world as rich and rewarding as possible, and she has succeeded. The role of stepfather is never easy, but Paul has embraced the twins with love while treating my relationship with them with respect and dignity.

  Then comes Zach. There is little I can say I have not already said. Except thank you. I do not know how much of Father’s Day he will read or comprehend. He granted me his absolute trust. I can only hope and pray I have honored the wonder of his life.

  PROLOGUE

  • • • TONY LA RUSSA definitely saw things that kept him up at night: changeups without change, sinkers lacking sink, curves refusing curve. Not to mention the time that Fassero, after being told to throw some garbage nowhere near the plate—bowl it, roll it, slice it, dice it, bounce it if he had to—had thrown it so up and so over that Garciaparra couldn't help but lace it past second to tie the game in extra innings. For four months now, that vision had haunted La Russa, not what Fassero had done but what La Russa hadn't done: hadn't adequately prepared Fassero for the moment, leaving Fassero exposed.

  The explanation for his sleeplessness was simple, maybe. When anybody does the same thing for as long as he had, going on a quarter century, he was bound to see things he couldn't set aside no matter how hard he tried to rationalize. Another explanation was his own personality: intense, smoldering, a glowing object of glower. He barely smiled even when something wonderful happened, as if he were willing himself not to. Some thought he worked too hard, grinded away at it when he would have been better off forgetting it, took the bad things into the night when he should have slept. Even he knew he had gone too far, had made personal compromises he knew were wrong, but it wasn't simply an occupation to him or even a preoccupation.

  It was something he loved. And like other managers who have spent most of their lives around the game, he had an obsessive mind for it: no at-bat unsung, no pitch ever forgotten, no possibility of simply turning it all off at night. He retained more anecdotes—more memories of balls and strikes and beanballs and stolen signs and games won that should have been lost and games lost that should have been won—than any of the half-pound encyclopedias that came out like clockwork. His meticulous personality accounted only partly for his late-night visions. Maybe the very oddity of his chosen profession was also to blame. Maybe it was the fact that he couldn't simply call an employee in when he had performed badly, couldn't simply talk to him privately. With thousands of people watching, he instead had to walk out and fetch the poor soul as if he were a suicide-in-waiting, then take his weapon away from him because clearly he could no longer be trusted with it, might somehow do further harm than he already had. Or maybe it was all those hand gestures he performed six days a week and sometimes seven: the pantomime of wipes and swipes and scratches.

  As much as his job tormented him, he knew that managing a baseball team was a wonderful way to spend a life. It could be thrilling when it went right: when you did something that pushed in a run here and there, when you set up a defense and the ball, often so recalcitrant, obediently played right into the hands of that defense. There was exceptional excitement in the fact that for all the preparation you did, and Tony La Russa was always preparing, the game could never be scripted. As much as he knew—and he had spent his life trying to know—things he never could have imagined still routinely happened, an odd fantastic play that even if it went against you still made you secretly smile in wonder. When the game did work right, hummed along with that perfect hum that every fan recognizes, La Russa would think, simply: "Beautiful. Just beautiful baseball."

  If the amount of time he had been at it—the very attitude he had about it—made him something of a throwback, it shouldn't imply that he was simply some tired relic waiting for his retirement papers. No one currently managing had won as many games; he was eighth on the all-time list going into this 2003 season and likely to be as high as third by the time he was finished. No one in the modern history of the game had managed for twenty-four consecutive years—starting in 1979 with the White Sox, then with the Athletics, and now with the Cardinals for nearly a decade—an amazing feat of security in a job that had no security. No one else had won the Manager of the Year Award five times, across four decades, in both leagues, with each of the three teams he had m
anaged: the White Sox in 1983 when he was still in his Wonder Boy thirties, twice with the Oakland A's in 1988 and 1992 in his forties, and then with the Cardinals in 1996 and 2002.

  Along the way, in a game generally terrified of innovation, La Russa, now fifty-eight, had come up with innovations. He had refined the concept of the closer into a one-inning pitcher with the exclusive territory of the ninth. He had made a science of situational matchups between hitter and pitcher in the late innings. (Once he used five pitchers in the space of eight pitches.) And, as if to prove that an obsessive mind was hardly perfect, he had even challenged the hallowed concept of the starting rotation. Briefly, instead of having a single starting pitcher for each game, he went with a starting grouping of pitchers in which each one was not allowed to pitch longer than three innings. It was in keeping with his reputation for continual tinkering—too much tinkering in the eyes of some—and it was quietly shelved after a handful of games.

  After twenty-four years of managing, it was difficult to imagine that he had ever done anything else. He seemed like someone who had bypassed infancy and childhood and adolescence to appear one day in his chosen profession: He seemed that intimate with it. But he still sensed the intrinsic bizarreness of what he did—the idea of spending his life in what looked like a seedy basement nightclub with a long bench instead of chairs and paper cups instead of shot glasses, a club whose denizens had temperaments as stable as a Silicon Valley IPO. Day in and day out, he had to tell them what to do, even though they made millions more than he did and weren't above back-stabbing betrayal and knew that ultimately, he was a lot more expendable than they were. Even so, he controlled their work schedules, kept them in a game or took them out, got them up or sat them down. As a result, he often humiliated them simply by doing his job. They vented their anger through pouty eyes refusing to look at him from the length of that stark bench. They had pride, enormous pride, at least the ones worth worrying about did. They played with a magic to them that he had never had when he'd played, which made the idea of his telling them what to do—deciding the daily flow of their lives—even more dicey.