In the 1980s, when I fully surrendered myself to the drink, my relationship with my father suffered. Ever the good man, Dad never left my corner, and he was always there to pull me out of a long concatenation of furnaces that I repeatedly cast myself into. Nevertheless, there was always tension between us. I was a great disappointment to Dad, I knew, and there reached a point where he could not trust me with even the smallest of tasks. And I, fully aware of this disappointment yet secretly holding Dad in the highest regard, managed to bury the shame wrought of this contradictory circumstance by nurturing my alcoholism and irresponsibility to the fullest extent.
When I finally got sober in 1994, my father and I set out to mend our wounds. There was no efficient way to do this. It took time and an openness we had not previously shared. Much of this healing took place while watching baseball, a sport I had previously loathed. Prior to sobriety, I had found baseball to be a stultifying experience, the equivalent of watching people read. But something magical happened when the drink was removed and the scales slowly began to fall from my eyes. I share some of that magic in the video below.
Another snapshot of this story is important to share. In 2006, while living in Florida, my wife and I rented the movie Click, starring Adam Sandler. In the film, Sandler plays Michael Newman, a harried workaholic disengaged from his family, who is given a magical TV remote that allows him to jump around through time and to different points in his life. But this is one of those "smart" remotes that remembers trends and repeats them, and soon Michael is skipping over huge chapters of his life, missing some of the most important moments.
One of these moments that Michael skips over is the death of his father. Horrified by this, he asks the remote to take him to the last time he saw his father alive. Michael immediately jumps back in time and is a spectator, watching himself as the bitter CEO of his own company, too occupied with matters of business to take a moment to go to lunch with his father Ted (played by Henry Winlker). The last shot we see of Michael and his Dad together is of Michael at his desk, working away on reports, while Ted slips out of his office, shoulders slumped and a heartbroken look on his face.
I immediately vowed to get home more and spend more time with my Dad.
Today, at the hospital, Dad was a bit bleary, having difficulty staying awake, and he was obstinate when we tried to get him to do his physical therapy exercises. When he began to ignore us, Mom decided that we needed to leave (we had been there awhile anyway). When we told Dad goodbye, he had that same look of abject despair that Henry Winkler as Ted has in Click.
I don't know if my father will ever come back to us. He is not the Dad I know right now, still struggling with delirium and so frustrated by his disorientation that he lashes out at all of us. But as long as he is still taking breaths, he is still my Dad, and as such, I felt compelled to honor him in the following way:
In 2010, when my wife was out of town, I decided to take a road trip by myself up to Dyersville, Iowa, to see the farm and ball diamond that served as the shooting location for Field of Dreams, my favorite film (you can probably guess why). On the drive, I made a few special stops to videotape myself ruminating about my life, my father, and baseball. After editing in some narrative and including several images from the film, I presented The Field, my 30-minute finished documentary, to Dad on Father's Day 2010.
I warn you, this video is rather frank, and I take pains to be as honest as I can about the nature of my own past transgressions. I hope you take time to watch The Field, and if you do, I hope you get something out of it. If you do not watch, I will understand. Many who have seen the entire documentary have told me it was quite an emotional experience. That was my intent, I guess; no artist sets out to create something that will be ineffective.
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