Dad hates to lose. At anything. Even checkers.
Every Christmas we set up the checkerboard on the floor in front of the tree for our annual tournament. Sometimes it lasts for days with all of us fervently trying to oust Dad. One by one, however, he knocks us out.
On a Sunday afternoon after Christmas, I'm waging a fierce battle to win my first checkers' game against Dad. Just once, before I graduate from high school, I desperately want to beat Dad. To my disbelief, he makes a clumsy move, and I double jump.
"I win!" I shout in exultation. In astonishment Dad stares at the board. My brothers and sisters clap my back, and I rise flushed with triumph.
"Sit down," Dad commands. "We're playing again. That one didn't count." Dad's famous for making up his own rules.
"I can't play again, Dad!" I say. "The Grahams are picking me up to babysit in ten minutes."
"Sit down!" he orders.
I lose that checkers' game as fast as I can and flee out the door to my babysitting job. When I return, Dad is sulking, but Mick is beaming.
"Mick won the tourney!" my little brothers and sisters can't wait to tell me.
Dad doesn't take it well. During the game, when Mick hesitates and lifts his finger from a checker piece, Dad roars. "You can't change your mind! Once you put your finger on a checker, you're committed!"
Then Dad moves with vehement momentum. But he makes the fatal mistake of lifting his finger from his own checker.
"You can't do that!" Mick shouts. "Once you put your finger on a checker, you're committed!" Dad's face turns purple. He loses the game. Then he sweeps the board clean of every checker piece and storms out of the room fuming with rage.
Dad's outrageous behavior doesn't surprise us in the least. In the middle 60's living in Denver, Dad is a loyal Denver Broncos' fan but earns a troublesome reputation for the time he threatens the officials. Storming out of the stadium in a huff after a dramatic loss, Dad sees the refs making a quick getaway in their vehicle. Our 6 ft. 7 inch, 260 pound father plants himself in front of their car and pounds on the hood in rage. He attracts a small crowd of equally enraged fans, and in a matter of seconds, the carful of officials is surrounded by an angry mob of the Denver Bronco faithful. Thankfully, the vehicle escapes and squeals out of the parking lot. Dad and his posse of hit men shake their fists after them.
We can hardly believe at the time that our good, steady father, who preaches honesty and responsibility and integrity, would do such a thing. As we grow older, though, it's clear that Dad has a problem. He cheats at family tennis tournaments and even at our driveway basketball games. No matter how insignificant the contest, Dad must win at any cost. One day when Mick brings home his high school buddies, Dad suggests a friendly game of basketball in the driveway.
"The girls and I'll take on all of you," he challenges.
Twelve-year-old Terri, though, is so besotted with one of Mick's cute friends that she misses a layup. Dad quickly sizes up the problem and stops the game.
"You're not concentrating," he frowns at Terri. "Get down and give me ten."
Terri is horrified. "Dad!" she pleads.
"Ten push-ups!" Dad roars.
But Terri will die before she performs push-ups in front of Mick's cute friends. She abandons our team and sprints into the house.
Dad loses his composure at every one of our Central Catholic sporting events. He shouts so loudly and so often that Sister Mary Leo and Sister Sue, who are very fond of Dad, make it a point to sit in front of him in hopes their holy presence will curb his tongue. It does no good.
"Are you the mayor of Holdrege?" he screams at a ref from a nearby town who mistakenly gives my brother Joe an extra foul. He even marches down to give the scorekeeper a talking to, much to Joe's humiliation.
Dad, however, saves his worst behavior for a friendly city league basketball game at Stolley Park Elementary Gym. Joe, Mick and Rick are all playing, and the entire family goes to cheer them on. It's not a school game or even a very important one. Dad thinks it is. The ref is a guy off the street hired by the city to earn 20 bucks.
"Ref!" Dad screams. "Do your job! You're not paid to pick your nose out there!"
When Mick is undercut in a cheap shot move, Dad becomes apoplectic. "You are the WORST official in this town! In the state!" His voice echoes across the gym. Everyone stares at us. Like she always does, Mom makes a vain attempt to quell Dad's enthusiasm.
"He's doing his best, Dickie," she gently nudges Dad. "Leave the poor boy alone!"
The official - a small, timid guy who probably agrees to ref as a favor to a buddy- suddenly has had enough. He stops the game, furiously blows his whistle, and strides determinedly across the court to confront Dad.
"Out!" he shouts at Dad. "Take everybody in your family and get out!"
You can hear a pin drop in the little gymnasium. Mom is red-faced, and the rest of us want only to die. But Dad is all at once terrifyingly calm. He rises, towering over the the little ref, then turns to us. "Patti, Kids," he says with grave dignity. "We're leaving now."
There is not a sound as we climb out of the bleachers. Dad assists Mom, who is holding our baby brother Jeff, navigate the steps. Then he marches out of the gym. The rest of us follow in single file, our echoing footsteps loud in the thundering silence. It is the single most humiliating moment in any of our lives.
"What's wrong with him?" I wail to my mother later at home. I think of my friends who witness our mass exodus from the gym. Tomorrow at school, the Browns will be the talk of the town.
Mom sits beside me and sighs. "Don't you see?" She studies the pattern of the sofa. "Your dad refuses to be defeated. It's his way of protecting us. And himself."
This makes no sense to me. I've heard stories of Dad's stormy relationship with his own mother in Pittsburgh where he grows up. With the urging of his Aunt Marge in Colorado, Dad earns a basketball scholarship to Regis University in Denver and leaves his home in Pittsburgh forever. He vows never again to ask his parents for help and makes it through college entirely on his own. Eventually, he marries Mom who loves him and believes in him, raises ten kids who worship him, and never asks for help from anyone.
"You know how proud he is. He gets scared sometimes," Mom explains, "but he won't give into fear. He simply won't accept defeat."
Suddenly, I'm thinking of a late summer day in Denver when I am seven. Dad has promised my brothers and me a ride on the big boat at City Park Lake. We are beside ourselves with excitement. When we arrive at the park, however, falling out of the car in excitement, the boat man tells us we're too late.
"Just took the last group out. We're done for the day," he calls behind his shoulder dismissively.
My brothers and I are so disappointed, we cry. Back in the car, we depart in dejected silence. But Dad suddenly turns around and heads back to the lake. "We're going on that boat ride," he says with steely determination.
Hope is alive.
We never know what Dad says to the boat man. Does he offer him money? Dad strolls back to the car. We wait in nervous excitement.
"Well, what are you all waiting for?" he pretends to be impatient. "We're going on a boat ride!"
All these years later, I don't even remember the boat ride. But I remember thinking that there is nothing my dad can't do.
I lean on Mom's shoulder. I may be almost 18-years-old, but I still rely on her wisdom and love. I will never completely understand Dad. He can be stubborn and irrational and proud. But he's also funny and loving and bigger than life. When Dad walks through the door after work every evening, we're happy to see his big, smiling face. He makes us feel safe.
Sighing against my mother's shoulder, I suppose Dad's worth the trouble - even if we do get kicked out of Stolley Park School Gymnasium.
And even if he cheats at checkers.
Every Christmas we set up the checkerboard on the floor in front of the tree for our annual tournament. Sometimes it lasts for days with all of us fervently trying to oust Dad. One by one, however, he knocks us out.
On a Sunday afternoon after Christmas, I'm waging a fierce battle to win my first checkers' game against Dad. Just once, before I graduate from high school, I desperately want to beat Dad. To my disbelief, he makes a clumsy move, and I double jump.
 |
| Christmas Day, 1973: All of us except Mick (who's taking the pic) |
"I win!" I shout in exultation. In astonishment Dad stares at the board. My brothers and sisters clap my back, and I rise flushed with triumph.
"Sit down," Dad commands. "We're playing again. That one didn't count." Dad's famous for making up his own rules.
"I can't play again, Dad!" I say. "The Grahams are picking me up to babysit in ten minutes."
"Sit down!" he orders.
I lose that checkers' game as fast as I can and flee out the door to my babysitting job. When I return, Dad is sulking, but Mick is beaming.
"Mick won the tourney!" my little brothers and sisters can't wait to tell me.
Dad doesn't take it well. During the game, when Mick hesitates and lifts his finger from a checker piece, Dad roars. "You can't change your mind! Once you put your finger on a checker, you're committed!"
Then Dad moves with vehement momentum. But he makes the fatal mistake of lifting his finger from his own checker.
"You can't do that!" Mick shouts. "Once you put your finger on a checker, you're committed!" Dad's face turns purple. He loses the game. Then he sweeps the board clean of every checker piece and storms out of the room fuming with rage.
Dad's outrageous behavior doesn't surprise us in the least. In the middle 60's living in Denver, Dad is a loyal Denver Broncos' fan but earns a troublesome reputation for the time he threatens the officials. Storming out of the stadium in a huff after a dramatic loss, Dad sees the refs making a quick getaway in their vehicle. Our 6 ft. 7 inch, 260 pound father plants himself in front of their car and pounds on the hood in rage. He attracts a small crowd of equally enraged fans, and in a matter of seconds, the carful of officials is surrounded by an angry mob of the Denver Bronco faithful. Thankfully, the vehicle escapes and squeals out of the parking lot. Dad and his posse of hit men shake their fists after them.
We can hardly believe at the time that our good, steady father, who preaches honesty and responsibility and integrity, would do such a thing. As we grow older, though, it's clear that Dad has a problem. He cheats at family tennis tournaments and even at our driveway basketball games. No matter how insignificant the contest, Dad must win at any cost. One day when Mick brings home his high school buddies, Dad suggests a friendly game of basketball in the driveway.
"The girls and I'll take on all of you," he challenges.
Twelve-year-old Terri, though, is so besotted with one of Mick's cute friends that she misses a layup. Dad quickly sizes up the problem and stops the game.
 |
| Dad, Christmas 1973 |
Terri is horrified. "Dad!" she pleads.
"Ten push-ups!" Dad roars.
But Terri will die before she performs push-ups in front of Mick's cute friends. She abandons our team and sprints into the house.
Dad loses his composure at every one of our Central Catholic sporting events. He shouts so loudly and so often that Sister Mary Leo and Sister Sue, who are very fond of Dad, make it a point to sit in front of him in hopes their holy presence will curb his tongue. It does no good.
"Are you the mayor of Holdrege?" he screams at a ref from a nearby town who mistakenly gives my brother Joe an extra foul. He even marches down to give the scorekeeper a talking to, much to Joe's humiliation.
Dad, however, saves his worst behavior for a friendly city league basketball game at Stolley Park Elementary Gym. Joe, Mick and Rick are all playing, and the entire family goes to cheer them on. It's not a school game or even a very important one. Dad thinks it is. The ref is a guy off the street hired by the city to earn 20 bucks.
"Ref!" Dad screams. "Do your job! You're not paid to pick your nose out there!"
When Mick is undercut in a cheap shot move, Dad becomes apoplectic. "You are the WORST official in this town! In the state!" His voice echoes across the gym. Everyone stares at us. Like she always does, Mom makes a vain attempt to quell Dad's enthusiasm.
"He's doing his best, Dickie," she gently nudges Dad. "Leave the poor boy alone!"
The official - a small, timid guy who probably agrees to ref as a favor to a buddy- suddenly has had enough. He stops the game, furiously blows his whistle, and strides determinedly across the court to confront Dad.
"Out!" he shouts at Dad. "Take everybody in your family and get out!"
You can hear a pin drop in the little gymnasium. Mom is red-faced, and the rest of us want only to die. But Dad is all at once terrifyingly calm. He rises, towering over the the little ref, then turns to us. "Patti, Kids," he says with grave dignity. "We're leaving now."
There is not a sound as we climb out of the bleachers. Dad assists Mom, who is holding our baby brother Jeff, navigate the steps. Then he marches out of the gym. The rest of us follow in single file, our echoing footsteps loud in the thundering silence. It is the single most humiliating moment in any of our lives.
"What's wrong with him?" I wail to my mother later at home. I think of my friends who witness our mass exodus from the gym. Tomorrow at school, the Browns will be the talk of the town.
Mom sits beside me and sighs. "Don't you see?" She studies the pattern of the sofa. "Your dad refuses to be defeated. It's his way of protecting us. And himself."
This makes no sense to me. I've heard stories of Dad's stormy relationship with his own mother in Pittsburgh where he grows up. With the urging of his Aunt Marge in Colorado, Dad earns a basketball scholarship to Regis University in Denver and leaves his home in Pittsburgh forever. He vows never again to ask his parents for help and makes it through college entirely on his own. Eventually, he marries Mom who loves him and believes in him, raises ten kids who worship him, and never asks for help from anyone.
"You know how proud he is. He gets scared sometimes," Mom explains, "but he won't give into fear. He simply won't accept defeat."
Suddenly, I'm thinking of a late summer day in Denver when I am seven. Dad has promised my brothers and me a ride on the big boat at City Park Lake. We are beside ourselves with excitement. When we arrive at the park, however, falling out of the car in excitement, the boat man tells us we're too late.
"Just took the last group out. We're done for the day," he calls behind his shoulder dismissively.
My brothers and I are so disappointed, we cry. Back in the car, we depart in dejected silence. But Dad suddenly turns around and heads back to the lake. "We're going on that boat ride," he says with steely determination.
Hope is alive.
We never know what Dad says to the boat man. Does he offer him money? Dad strolls back to the car. We wait in nervous excitement.
"Well, what are you all waiting for?" he pretends to be impatient. "We're going on a boat ride!"
All these years later, I don't even remember the boat ride. But I remember thinking that there is nothing my dad can't do.
I lean on Mom's shoulder. I may be almost 18-years-old, but I still rely on her wisdom and love. I will never completely understand Dad. He can be stubborn and irrational and proud. But he's also funny and loving and bigger than life. When Dad walks through the door after work every evening, we're happy to see his big, smiling face. He makes us feel safe.
Sighing against my mother's shoulder, I suppose Dad's worth the trouble - even if we do get kicked out of Stolley Park School Gymnasium.
And even if he cheats at checkers.
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