I may have mentioned this in a post prior. In fact, I think I did when we first made the decision to leave the US and come overseas. Living overseas is awesome. It is a lifestyle that has been very good to us. There are many adventures, travels, weird quirky events that couldn't happen elsewhere or in any other circumstance. But it's not all great. The hardest part of living as a guest in another country is being so far away from your own home. From your own family.
Last February all of the previous paragraph came to fruition. We were on break for Carnival and we were traveling from Chile to Argentina to Uruguay. It was a great plan. There was great food, hiking, and all of the adventure stuff. However, as we landed in Argentina, I got a phone call in the airport. My stepdad had died suddenly. Well, really my dad.
Without going to far into detail on this, because it is irrelevant to the story, my sister and I have been without the presence of our biological father for about 20 years. We saw him last when I was in fifth grade. I mention this to highlight the fact that during that time, in fact right around fifth grade for me, my mom started to date a man named Jeff.
It was a grand love story and one that I simply cannot due justice on a blog. But the relevant information is this man, who was a commercial fisherman by trade, a blue collar worker with a generous heart, a sometimes short temper, and always a caring and good person, entered our lives 20 years ago. With no obligation to me, no duty, not responsibility, he did his best to be a father to me and my sister. He went fishing with me. He played basketball with me, poorly, but he still did it. In fact, that might be the point. He went out of his way to be the person I needed him to be. He did the same for my mother and my sister.
He was a good man and during my adolescence as a trouble-making teenager (only at times), as a young man, and as an adult. He did his best to guide me along the way as if I were his own son. We had arguments; even a fight or two if I'm being honest. But he did his best to be his best for us. When I needed to learn the value of hard work, and I needed money to pay for my car, or my books for college, he was there to show me how to work hard. He took me under his wing as a commercial fisherman and showed me what real work ethic was. We worked side by side for 20 hour shifts. I fell, he laughed, then he helped me up; time and time again. He showed me a lot because he was a great man.
We were very different people. His interests and my own rarely intersected. But there was always mutual respect and mutual appreciation for one another. One of the areas that we found common ground was our interest in sports. Jeff was a Philadelphia sports fan in all sports. As a man who grew up in Pennsylvania, and who made his home just a short ride from Philadelphia, he felt strongly about his teams. We would often go to games together. But despite this overlap in interests, we still rooted for different teams. He was an Eagles fan through and through, something that I just simply was not.
I write this blog post as a cathartic means for hashing out my own thoughts on the matter. In fact, when he passed away, Shannon and I got on the next flight, flew 10 hours from Argentina to Mexico City, spent a night there because we couldn't get out sooner, then woke up at 3am to fly to NYC. We attended his funeral service, I gave his eulogy. Then we quickly were rushed back down to Ecuador. While there, I didn't allow myself to grieve properly. I felt the need to be the support for my family. Then, when I got back, I busied myself with work to distract myself, then we were busy with moving away from Ecuador, busy moving to Saudi, busy getting used to a new country and new people, busy with life. I never had an opportunity to think through, in adequate means, what he meant to me, what it meant that he was gone, or what it meant to be so far away from family. But I did on Super Bowl Sunday this year.
From the moment the Eagles started winning games early this season, I thought of Jeff. As they won game after game, I felt this sense of hope that they were going to win the championship, for him. As heavy underdogs, they won game after game. Eleven months after Jeff's passing, I realized that he would never be able to cheer his team on. He would have gone the duration of his whole life without having seen his favorite team be the ultimate team. He would never be there to take joy in the small things that make life feel like life. It was poetic timing that the Eagles made the Super Bowl.
When the day arrived, I woke up early. I had invited friends over to watch the game. To the best of their knowledge, it was just the Super Bowl. It was a game that they, as red blooded Americans, HAD to watch. To me, it was something more. I don't know that I can put it into words. Perhaps it was some sort of divine coincidence. Perhaps it was symbolic. But it didn't matter. To me, it was a three hour block of time, where I thought about Jeff. I gave him his due. I sat there, with the game on thinking about his botched layups he took in an effort to connect with me. I thought about how we nearly died one time on a fishing boat, 200 miles off the coast of New York, when our boat caught on fire, days away from anyone who could help. I thought about the day he and my mom got married. I thought about the day I met him as a punk kid with spiked hair and an attitude. I thought about how he taught me how to drive. I thought about how he taught me how to do terribly irresponsible things like donuts in our car in empty (mostly) parking lots. I thought about everything he meant to my family; to me.
Super Bowl Sunday of this past year started for us at 2:00am. So goes the time difference. I woke up early and cooked everyone waffles. I made coffee. I cheered on the Eagles. I enjoyed the game. I enjoyed the opportunity that was long overdue, to set some time thinking about a person who meant a lot to me and who in a lot of ways, defined who I became as a man.
The Eagles won. They played a great game. It was emotional for me. I experienced the drama of a great game, and of a victory. I rooted afar for a team that was never my own at a time of day that I swore never to see again after I finished college. I thought of my friends and family members who grew up in the shadow of Philadelphia as I had. I felt joy for them. I thought of Jeff. I wish he could have seen it. But either way, I finally did my part in saying goodbye.
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