Beyond the Byline: My dad, my hero

WILKES-BARRE — On this Father’s Day, the 29th without my dad around, yes, I am sad, but more importantly, I am proud and thankful.

My dad passed on Nov. 13, 1995 — eight days before his 73rd birthday, joining my mom in heaven where she had been waiting for him since May 10, 1968. Mom was 42 years old when she passed.

Any way you look at it, it’s a long time to be without parents, especially when they were so good at being parents.

William O’Boyle and Elizabeth Kraszewski O’Boyle taught me everything I needed to travel through my life, and I am eternally grateful for being their son.

They taught me about love, compassion, community, family, friendship, acceptance, fairness, tolerance and faith.

But today, I recall so many moments that my dad and I shared.

I remember playing a lot of catch in our side yard at 210 Reynolds St. in Plymouth. I was a big kid and I could throw a pretty good fastball. Dad lost his right leg in World War II and he wore a cumbersome wooden prosthesis. My fastball knocked him over a few times, but he never complained.

“Rock back and forth, push off your back foot and follow through,” he would repeat over and over.

And he would watch as a took hundreds of swings at a tennis ball that my dad hung from an old cherry tree in that same side yard.

“Swing level, keep your eye on the ball, you can’t hit what you don’t see,” he said.

Dad was my coach, my most loyal fan and my source for answers to all my questions.

He never let me down.

I recall sitting on the couch next to my dad and watching hundreds of sporting events — most notably Yankee doubleheaders sponsored by Ballentine Beer and hearing announcer Mel Allen say, “How about that!”

Dad would sometimes have a sardine sandwich that my mom made on buttered bread with raw onion and salt and pepper and ketchup.

“Wanna bite?” he would ask. I took a bite once — that was enough. I much preferred sharing a stick of pepperoni and some Charles Chips. I washed it all down with a Glen Bottling Company lime soda.

And so many times sitting across from him at Handley’s Diner on South Main Street, Wilkes-Barre, or at Raub’s Restaurant in Plymouth — enjoying ham, mashed potatoes, corn and coleslaw — before we went to visit Mom in the Wyoming Valley Hospital on Dana Street.

And many trips to Philadelphia when Mom was at Hahnemann Hospital and eating at Horn & Hardart restaurant next door — again we had the ham dinner special.

These were difficult times, but dad remained strong — for me. He was the most courageous man I have ever known — a war hero and a family hero — my hero.

So many trips to New York for many weekend series at Yankee Stadium — and watching Mickey Mantle chase baseballs around the monuments that were in centerfield.

Waiting almost every day to hear his Plymouth Valiant backing up Reynolds Street after work.

Sitting at the kitchen table as Mom served us a home-cooked meal every night and my dad always thanking her for making such a delicious meal.

Watching TV westerns, his favorites, as Dad would duck punches thrown by the likes of Ben Cartwright, Marshal Matt Dillon and Audie Murphy.

Finding yet another Louis L’Amour western paperback for Dad to read — he loved them all.

Watching “Wheel of Fortune” and trying to guess the puzzles faster than Dad — he usually won.

Observing Dad at ceremonies honoring veterans — he never missed any. He knew what it meant to serve your country and he also new that those who gave their lives should never be forgotten.

Watching him play cards — he counted every suit in pinochle, not just the trump.

Being called down to Bobby Novak’s Cafe for some homemade buttermilk and fried scrapple. Delicious!

Also being at Bob’s when Johnny Mazur and Johnny Blanchard visited. Mazur was a Plymouth QB who starred at Notre Dame and coached in the NFL. Blanchard played for the Yankees — he served in the Army with Bobby Novak.

Being at Plymouth Little League — Dad was a co-founder — and observing how he loved baseball and how he loved to help kids.

I could go on and on and on. There are so many more stories and memories to tell.

One special time with Dad was when I had the opportunity to take him to Cooperstown, New York, to visit the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum.

It was special to see my dad’s eyes widen when he saw a display of one of his favorite players or teams. Usually, they were Yankees.

But Dad appreciated all the greats, and he took time to pause and read many of the displays about players and events of many different teams.

It was special time spent with a special guy — my dad.

If I had a vote, my dad would be in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

After the war, Dad returned to Plymouth, and I’m told he was still the same fun-loving guy he was before he left, a bit mischievous and always looking for a good time — and always a gentleman.

And he worked at Leslie Fay for almost 30 years.

My dad was always there for me — in the stands at my baseball games, my basketball games and at all the practices. He watched, but he never complained. He never questioned any of my coaches. He always taught me to respect my teachers and coaches.

And I learned about love from my dad. I knew he and my mom had a special relationship from the beginning — they each had a bad leg and neither were in any way hindered by their disability.

But it was when my mom took sick that I saw love up close. I saw the expressions on his face, the holding of hands, the tears. I saw the devotion of nightly visits to the hospital and weekend trips to Philadelphia to be at Mom’s side. I listened when they talked. I heard the conversations of two people in love.

I remember it all like it was yesterday. And even though all those yesterdays are gone, my dad is always with me.

I have never had a day when I haven’t talked about him, thought about him or tried to live my life like him.

Happy Father’s Day Dad!