Ode to My Dad

My Dad loves Baseball. But he loves the Mets, as does my sister Jen. We will forgive that. My friend Sara, who has known me longer than any of my friends, other than my sister; will appreciate this post. She too, is one of his daughters, the unofficial one.



My Dad worked for many years as an executive for a Fortune 500 company. We moved every Four years or so growing up. He worked long hours, but he didnt miss the important stuff. Case in point, softball games. My Mom was our Coach, so was Dad. Dad usually got there in the 3rd inning or so. We would see him walking down from the road to the dug-oug losing articles of clothing. Jacket, tie...rolling up his sleeves and coaching in a dress shirt and dress pants, always sweating profusely.



(He gets that from my late Grandfather Anthony Trimboli. He was a big sweater. Happy Fathers Day Pop Pop. We miss you. He was the only other person in my family who liked Barbra Striesand besides me. He's been gone a long time now. I miss my Grandparents alot. I wish my children knew them.)



The girls on the softball teams loved my parents. They were fair, everyone played. Everyone learned. And everyone had fun and felt like a winner. My Dad used to get excited. Sometimes he argued. But he was always there. Sara thought it was cool that he was there coaching in business attire. I think probably because her Dad wore the same kind of clothes and she hardly saw him. But she saw my Dad. He was there for her too.

We grew up on baseball fields. The kids even got to play in the adult ball games. Most likely because we were so good...but thats besides the point. Im very lucky. My Father is there in all my childhood memories, and all my adult memories, and in all my childrens memories too. And if he stops smoking, he may be there into their adulthood too!



We went camping and skiing every year. My Dad can cook eggs over a campfire that melt in your mouth. He tells storys about his childhood that we still dont know if theyre true or not. All we do know is that he had bike parts, not bikes. He was the youngest boy of seven and he was called "Worm" His brother Steve sent him mail adressed to Worm Trimboli. We should all ahve a brother like that.



When I was a teenager, I had a hard time passing my road test, despite being a good driver. Laugh, but it's true. Ive always been a nervous person. It's diagnosed. So when I flunked the second time around, with the same instructor....my Dad lost it a little. He called her the c word. Now before, you get all high and mighty, consider this: You've driven hundreds of hours with your sixteen year old daughter. She's failed for the second time and is looking at you with tears in her big blue eyes. He tried to talk to the woman and got stonewalled. Then he went off. I always say how embarassed I was. But not really. He then went to the DMV to complain about her. I had to retake my pewrmit test and resign up for my road test. Which my Mom took me to and I passed. ( new instructor) My Dad was trying to be his daughters hero that day. If the instructor had been a man, no doubt my Dad would have been arrested. ( But, Im sure I would have passed!)



My Dad's always been there for me. Through the good, the bad and the ugly. And the man knows how to jerk a few tears too....As I walked down the aisle to marry Tom, He said to me:



You go be his Queen, but you'll always be MY Princess.



Happy Fathers Day Daddy. I love you.