Please Scroll Down to See Forums Below 
KillahBee
New member
If you choose.
My father got hit by a baseball (he was not on the field) when he was about 10 or 11 in the head. He had over 4 brain surgeries and had to learn how to walk, talk, move, and function all over again. I still have the basketball that John Havlicek gave to my father when he visited him at his home. Because of this injury my father has a large metal plate in his head. He was made fun of in school after that and got in many fights, thrown out of a few schools.
What I remember most as a kid is my father working in Boston (we lived in Providence) and leaving the houst at 5am and not getting back until around 7:30pm every day. I remember waiting at the kitchen table for that initial sound of the front foor opening and running to go see him. I also remember picking him up at the airport with my mother, since he travelled about 46 weeks out of every year.
We had tough times growing up, as every father and his teenage son had - especially living in a typical Italian household. Lots of yelling, lying, physical fighting. I realize now that he did those things not because he was an asshole, but because he cared so much about me and our family. He basically gave up his life so I could have mine. And for that, I will always be in his debt.
I have told this story before, but one of my clearest memories as a kid was this: I used to get in trouble often in elementary school, nothing big, but detention and trips to the principal's office were common. One day my parents got called to the principal's office at night cause I got into a fight that day with a kid who constantly tormented me (I was pretty small as a kid) and my parents knew it. On the drive home that night the car was dead silent - which we all knew as a kid was much worse than getting yelled at. We get home and he goes upstairs to get out of his suit. Still dead silence. I am just sitting in my room terrified. He finally calls me in his room. I sit on the bed, shaking, as he continues to walk around the room in silence. Finally he walks up to me, looks me in the eye, points to the bridge of his nose, and says, "Next time, hit him right here".
I salute you pops. You gave up your life so I could have a chance at mine and I am pretty sure I have made you proud, even after we all thought I was destined for failure. I hope for nothing other than you having a relaxing semi-retirement life. I can never thank you enough.
My father got hit by a baseball (he was not on the field) when he was about 10 or 11 in the head. He had over 4 brain surgeries and had to learn how to walk, talk, move, and function all over again. I still have the basketball that John Havlicek gave to my father when he visited him at his home. Because of this injury my father has a large metal plate in his head. He was made fun of in school after that and got in many fights, thrown out of a few schools.
What I remember most as a kid is my father working in Boston (we lived in Providence) and leaving the houst at 5am and not getting back until around 7:30pm every day. I remember waiting at the kitchen table for that initial sound of the front foor opening and running to go see him. I also remember picking him up at the airport with my mother, since he travelled about 46 weeks out of every year.
We had tough times growing up, as every father and his teenage son had - especially living in a typical Italian household. Lots of yelling, lying, physical fighting. I realize now that he did those things not because he was an asshole, but because he cared so much about me and our family. He basically gave up his life so I could have mine. And for that, I will always be in his debt.
I have told this story before, but one of my clearest memories as a kid was this: I used to get in trouble often in elementary school, nothing big, but detention and trips to the principal's office were common. One day my parents got called to the principal's office at night cause I got into a fight that day with a kid who constantly tormented me (I was pretty small as a kid) and my parents knew it. On the drive home that night the car was dead silent - which we all knew as a kid was much worse than getting yelled at. We get home and he goes upstairs to get out of his suit. Still dead silence. I am just sitting in my room terrified. He finally calls me in his room. I sit on the bed, shaking, as he continues to walk around the room in silence. Finally he walks up to me, looks me in the eye, points to the bridge of his nose, and says, "Next time, hit him right here".
I salute you pops. You gave up your life so I could have a chance at mine and I am pretty sure I have made you proud, even after we all thought I was destined for failure. I hope for nothing other than you having a relaxing semi-retirement life. I can never thank you enough.
my dad
