Sports, Part 2

My dad's philosophy of raising and managing two active boys (my brother and me) was to introduce us to as many sports and activities as possible and see which ones stuck. For me, some did stick and become lifelong pursuits: chiefly basketball, golf, and tennis. Others, like fishing and hunting, did not. I still participated in them during my childhood years though because they were an excuse to get some dad time.

My brother and I were willing to endure the boredom that was fishing with our dad for the glory that awaited us: swimming in the pool at Mac’s Hidden Cove, our annual summer vacation destination near Shell Knob, Missouri. The swimming pool sat at the bottom of the hill and at the end of the dead-end road that led into the hidden cove. It was visible from our second floor room. I would stand on the balcony outside our room staring longingly at the blue water of the pool until it opened at 10:00 a.m. when Steve and I would hold a foot race to see who could be the first to dive into the water. With his five-years-older and longer legs, he usually won. But that was no big deal because I knew I would soon experience the pure joy of jumping feet first into the water, making a huge splash, and then standing in the shallow end of the pool, my teeth chattering as my small body adjusted to the chilly water.

It was a good thing that I didn't often reach the pool before my brother because at another motel, when I did get there first, things did not turn out well. I jumped into what I thought was the shallow end, but when my feet didn’t reach the bottom, I realized I was in the deep end. I thought my young life was over as I flailed around underneath the water, in panic mode, until I felt my brother’s arm around my waist, bringing me to the surface and steering me toward the safety of the edge of the pool. As much as I fought with my brother growing up, I’m grateful that he became that day and will always remain the guy who saved my life. Were it not for him arriving at that motel pool when he did, I wouldn’t be around writing this today.

Of the sports my dad introduced to me, the one that I liked even less than fishing was hunting. Hunting was a family activity (for the men anyway) and, as such, there was never any question about whether I would participate, but would I enjoy it? Not so much. Hunting trips in the Tandy family typically included Dad, my brother, Steve, Uncle Jim (Dad's brother), my cousins, Bruce and Harold, and me. We only hunted birds—pheasant and quail. Most times we would drive out to some fields near Wichita though there were a few longer trips to Western Kansas where, presumably, there were more birds to shoot.

My brother and cousins embraced everything about hunting enthusiastically. They especially liked the guns. I was different in this regard. I never particularly enjoyed shooting guns, and my main objective on these trips was to avoid shooting one of my family members accidentally or being shot myself.

There was a legendary story that was always told on these hunting trips. It was about Uncle Jim and his younger son, Bruce. As the story went, Jim and Bruce were walking down the tree row when they heard a rustling in the trees just ahead. Jim hollered to Bruce, who was walking slightly ahead of him, “Get down!” Bruce obediently hit the ground whereupon Jim calmly took aim over him and brought down a pheasant. The story made an impression on me, not just for Jim’s trickery in getting the shot for himself but for the very real fear of someday getting a load of buckshot in my ass because I had failed to “get down” quickly enough.

My memories of these hunting trips are decidedly negative. I remember walking lots of tree and hedgerows and not seeing any birds. I remember being extremely cold. I remember the frustration of shooting at a bird and missing. On the other hand, I don’t remember ever asking to stay home from one of these trips, so there must have been something I liked about them.

What I liked was the fellowship. It was a good feeling to spend time with the guys of the Tandy family, to hear the banter and teasing that went on among the group and to be included as one of the men. This was particularly significant to me as the youngest of the bunch, always feeling like I had to fight for my place at the table.

I also loved the stories that came from these trips, stories that were told and retold and embellished with each retelling. Some of these became legendary, like the one about Jim tricking Bruce to get a good shot for himself. Another story in the legendary category went like this: We had stopped for lunch at a café, and Uncle Jim had gone to use the restroom. He had been gone for awhile when my cousin Bruce went to check on him. According to Bruce, Jim cracked the bathroom door open enough to whisper that there was no toilet paper. This presented a real problem since Jim had not realized this fact until after he completed his business. Uncle Jim asked his son to bring him some toilet paper, but instead Bruce returned to the table and announced loudly, “Jim Jam’s in the bathroom, and he ain’t got no toilet paper!” This story was oft repeated at family dinners, much to the dismay of my mom and my Aunt Sybil.

One of the most embarrassing moments of my entire life happened on a hunting trip when I was around 13. We were heading back home and stopped at a gas station. The attendant had finished filling up the car, and some of our group were still in the store. Since there was another car waiting to get to our pump, I offered to move our vehicle out of the way. Now my motivation was not to be helpful. Rather I saw an opportunity to drive for the first time ever in what looked like a fairly non-challenging situation. Dad made a decision that he would soon regret and said yes. I got behind the wheel, started the car, and though I was going for drive, I accidentally stopped at reverse, and promptly hit the gas, backing into the waiting car, breaking our taillights and the other car’s headlights.

Well I felt absolutely terrible. And my shame was increased by performing this stunt in front of my brother and cousins, all of whom had their driver’s licenses and for whom this event, in my mind at least, confirmed their belief that I was a worthless little twit!  Amazingly,  Dad did not yell at me or berate me or threaten me with a loss of allowance. He patted me on the shoulder, told me not to worry about it, and went to trade insurance information with the other driver, who was no doubt in shock and disbelief about what had just happened. Years later, after I had kids, I would look back at this incident and my dad's reaction to it with considerable awe.

As I look at the trajectory of my life since my childhood, these hunting trips take on added significance. As I said, I’ve never really liked guns even though like most kids, I suppose, I was excited to get my first BB gun and practice shooting cans in the woods. When it came time to move on to shotguns, I was happy to use one of my dad’s old ones, unlike my brother and cousins who lusted after their own shiny new 12 gauges.

Years later I would become a faculty member at a Quaker university, where the pacifist stand of the Friends denomination proved very attractive to me. Since childhood, I’ve never owned a gun, and I’ve never hunted. My brother and cousins, on the other hand, continue the Tandy tradition to this day.  A boy who was afraid of guns in Kansas when I grew up would have been called a sissy, and I guess by those standards I was. As far as I know, of all the Tandy boys, I’m the only one who didn’t continue the hunting tradition and pass it on to his kids.

Even though my dad never played basketball with me, it's the sport I most associate with him. I realize now this is because I remember my dad not as a player of basketball but as a fan of the game.

Dad was an avid supporter of the Wichita State Wheatshockers, to whose home games he had season tickets. He took the game seriously.  Wins were met with much rejoicing; losses were mourned and hashed and rehashed. It was from him I learned how to be a fan.  When you're a fan, objectivity is not an option:  you live and die with the team. You invest yourself in their fortunes, in good times and bad.

 Of course, being a fan has its perils.  You can go overboard at times.  I remember the first time I was fortunate enough to go to a Shocker game with him: I was amazed when he voiced his displeasure at a call in loud, rather direct terms. And since his seats were courtside, I'm pretty sure the refs heard him.  I was surprised because in every other setting, my dad was a quiet, unassuming man who seldom raised his voice.  He was a gospel preacher, after all; wasn't he supposed to be setting an example for others?  

Looking back, I wonder whether the basketball arena provided a space for him where he could set aside his preacher image for a couple of hours and just be a regular guy.  Unfortunately, the lesson I learned was that it was okay to yell at referees, a practice which would get me into trouble later when my sons played high school basketball.  However, the enduring lesson I learned was that part of living, part of being human, is caring, even if it’s caring about something as mundane in the grand scheme of things as basketball.

Years later, when my two sons played high school basketball, Dad flew out to Oregon twice, both trips being planned around the boys’ basketball schedules. I was curious to see how he would respond to watching his grandsons play basketball. He was in his 80s, his hearing wasn’t good, and he was having trouble seeing out of his right eye. I just didn’t know how engaged he might be.

I should have known better. Where basketball was concerned, things hadn’t changed that much. He watched the game intently, clapping and cheering at the right places, which were often when one of his grandsons had completed a nice pass or scored a basket. And he still monitored the referees closely. His voice was no longer as strong as I remembered it back at those Shocker games, but it was loud enough that he could still voice his displeasure at a bad call. When the referee called a foul on Jackson, Dad waited for a quiet moment in the gym and then let out an exclamation that sounded like “shoowee.” Though I don’t know the exact definition of the term he was using, the meaning was unmistakeable: the referee had just made a horrible call, a ridiculous call, and Dad did not want this gross miscarriage of justice to go unnoticed. So he expressed himself in the loudest voice he could muster: “Shoowee," as if he had just discovered a skunk had sprayed his sleeping bag.

Three years before Dad died, I was able to spend my spring break with him at his retirement apartments. He had recently moved to Reflection Ridge after selling the house he lived in for some 54 years, the house where I grew up and learned to play basketball on the driveway hoop. My visit coincided with NCAA March Madness, so that week we watched a lot of basketball together.  While he seemed feeble in many ways, when it came to basketball, he still retained the old competitive fire.  If he had no particular reason to root for a team based on region or conference, he would still pick a favorite; then he would react with emotion to the ups and downs of that team throughout the game.

He still complained about the bad calls.
He still cared.
He was still a fan.

A year after Dad died, the Wichita State Shockers made an improbable run to reach the Final Four in the NCAA tournament. A colleague gave me a Shocker t-shirt, and I watched every game I could. I cheered my heart out for the Shockers: the underdogs, the good guys, as my dad called them. I complained to the television screen about the horrible calls the referees were making. I lived and died emotionally with every three pointer made and missed. 

But mostly I thought about my dad.
How much he would have loved this.
How much I wished I could have been watching these games with him.
How much I missed him.