1. All that was missing was a television. And some Heidelberg beer. I decided to spend Father's Day doing what Dad and I would do if he were still alive. I subbed the radio for the television and listened to the ESPN broadcast of the final round of the U. S. Open. Dad and I were both sentimental about golfers over the age of forty and my guess is we would have joined forces to pull for Phil Mickelson, knowing in the backs of our minds that he would do what he has done best in the U. S. Open five previous times: finish second. And he did. I think Dad would have used one of his favorite sayings about Mickelson on the 13th hole and complained that he "coughed up his guts" with his tee shot that went over the green. Dad never said athletes choked. He always used the more vulgar and colorful saying, "He coughed up his guts."
2. I continued my Father's Day celebration with Dad's ghost by listening to the Spurs defeat the Heat in Game 5 of the NBA Finals. Dad would be a Spurs fan. I can guarantee that. He'd love Greg Popovich. I can think of a lot of reasons he would have not liked the Heat. No one really coughed up their guts in this game, but I'm going to imagine that Dad would have really enjoyed the resurrection tonight of Manu Ginobili and would have been a great admirer of Tim Duncan.
3. I confess. I went off the Pert Woolum grid when it comes to dinner. I stir fried broccoli, onion, mushrooms, red pepper, and purple cabbage with fresh basil and lime and served it over buckwheat Soba noodles. Sorry, Dad. I know if I'd served this meal, you would have found a way to throw it in the bushes in front of the house. I think it was at this point during Father's Day that I heard the ghost of Pert Woolum say, "What's that shit?" and go to the icebox for another Heidelberg. I cannot now nor could I ever always please my dad!
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