Fired? How can you fire Jack Welch?

My father liked to say: “A man becomes a man when he becomes a father.” Or: “When he pays taxes the first time.” Or: “When he marries his high school sweetheart, buys a house, and coaches an undefeated team all in the same year.”

That day I wanted to say, “Dad, a man becomes a man when he loses everything he loves.”

“You were only three and two, they shouldn’t have let you go.”

“They didn’t fire me, son. I quit. And I’m about to show you the reason why.”

What became apparent, and why I longed to board the first plane back, was that Coach Jack Welch had already rewritten the events of the last twenty-four hours. His forced retirement had been repositioned as a victory. He was going out on top. “I still have my mind, my health,” he said, pleased. “My memory,” he half whispered as I noticed my mother, Bobette, sitting in the backseat of the family Cadillac.

“You left Mom in the car?”

“Tim, relax. She prefers the car. But brace yourself—it’s gotten worse since your last visit. I’m sure she’ll recognize you, but mostly, in public, she panics, worried she won’t remember names or faces. I mean, if truth be told, it’s why I’m quitting.”

“Oh,” I said, as that sinking feeling, the Great Disparity, returned. Caught between what would be wonderful if it were happening (retiring because of his devoted love for his dear wife, Bobette) and what was actually happening (fired for a three-and-two record), I felt the squeeze.

“Hi, Mom,” I said.

She smiled as if hearing the news that she was a mother for the first time.

“I’ve missed you, Mom.”

“Aren’t you sweet?”

No, I wanted to say. “Sweet” visits. “Sweet” calls often. “Sweet” is nothing like what I am.

“You won’t believe who’s coming. I’m so touched by the out-pouring.”

“Just a minute, Dad. Hey, Mom, how are you—”

Coach, interrupting: “Guess who’s coming?”

I sighed and then began to list the players most likely to return for the quickly planned festivities.

“Trisha McGuiness?” (5’ 9”, 145 lbs., All Conference, 14.6 ppg.)

“No,” he said, as if the thought of Trisha was preposterous.

“Riley?” (Riley Haliburton, a 90 percent free-throw shooter—“Man, could she pass.”)

“Not Riley, no.”

So I mentioned my father’s best players, his favorite players, and finally, Coach snapped, “Stop it! Most of those people live far away.”

“But I live far away . . .”

Coach ran over my words, listing five players, two of whom I didn’t remember, and I thought I remembered them all, and the three I did know were below-average players, but all of whom still lived in the Cayton area: Tami Long, Karin Hickok, Cheryl Porter.

Meanwhile, I drifted off to Anna Brody Land.

“Did you hear me?”

“Oh, did you say something?”

“I expect you’ll want to speak at my party.”

I moaned like a disgruntled teenager forced to do a chore. “No, Dad . . .”