Seeming more stunned than sad, he said, “You expect your parents to die. You rehearse for it. You even practice hearing the news.”

“But no one died,” I reminded him.

“True, but isn’t this worse?”

TIM

FOR MY FATHER TO RETIRE MIDSEASON MEANT ONLY ONE THING: HE’D BEEN FIRED. How did I know? Jack Welch would never quit. He was arguably the third-greatest coach in the history of women’s collegiate Division III basketball. In 1990 he’d been named by then-president George H. W. Bush as one of America’s Thousand Points of Light. In the special millennium issue of the Cleveland Plain Dealer, he’d been listed as one of Ohio’s living legends, along with former astronaut/senator John Glenn and Dave from Wendy’s.

As I got off the plane at the Toledo Express Airport, Coach jerked his arms above his head and, in Richard Nixon fashion, gave an awkward thumbs-up. Normally, I’d be embarrassed, thinking, Why can’t my father be like other people? But that day it didn’t bother me. I barely noticed he wasn’t wearing his usual pink and powder-blue Clayton College Lady Revolvers sweatsuit. In fact, I was so deep in thought, I almost walked right past him. What was I thinking? The same thoughts you’d be thinking if Anna Brody hadn’t patted you.

“And that’s how you greet your father?”

“Oh,” I said, snapping out of it.

Coach was standing before me. “Where’s your sister?”

Sal would not be attending the hastily organized retirement party and testimonial dinner. “First of all, it was so sudden,” she had explained over the phone. “Of course, if it was a funeral, or to take him off life support, then I’d come. But an honorary dinner, please.” I had begged Sal to attend, arguing that only one of us kids needed to go. “I’m a disappointment to him,” I said. Since he liked her better than me, she should catch the first flight back to the States. The argument was moot, though, because Sal couldn’t make it back even if she’d wanted to.

“She’s in Australia, Dad. That’s on the other side of the world.”

“Her loss,” Coach said with a chuckle. “Let me carry your bag.”

I marveled at the ease with which Coach slung my overnight bag over his shoulder. It should have been no surprise. Dad was a brick. Hard, lean. A Jack LaLanne type. Sixty-five years old, but if you looked at him from the neck down, you’d swear he was thirty.

“What do you have in this bag?”

“Books. My dissertation so far.”

“Oh, that. It’s a little light, don’t you think?”

Funny, I found the bag almost crippling in weight.

I started to say, “Well, I only brought a section of it . . .” But I stopped, because what was the point? In moments we’d be talking about Coach and only Coach.

“So, Dad, what happened?”

“It’s easier to understand if I show you.”

He slapped an arm over my back, and we moved quickly through the airport terminal. A well-wisher called out, “Thanks, Coach. Thanks for all the memories.” A janitor pushing a mop said to me, “You must be proud of your old man.” I nodded, longing for the moment when we’d be alone, for surely Coach had been staggered by the recent events. I secretly hoped that I’d get a glimpse of the broken and defeated man, the authentic man.