My Turn: Remembering all the dads and sons on Father's Day

When I was young, I observed Father’s Day with my dad, but he died in 1965 when I was only 19. When my son and daughter were living at home, they honored me, and when they left the nest, they continued with cards, gifts and phone calls.

But something special happened on Father’s Day in 2003 in a taxi from Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport to a hotel near the French Quarter.

I was in New Orleans to lead a Shakespeare workshop for teachers. The driver, in his early 70s, asked me typical taxi-driver questions: How did I like New York? Why had I come to New Orleans? How did I get interested in Shakespeare?

His name was John, and he had been a cabbie in the Crescent City for 30-plus years.

After we exchanged pleasantries, he asked if I had kids and where they lived. I said my son and his family were in Atlanta and my daughter was in Minneapolis, so if I were home on Long Island with my wife, I’d be without my children. I asked whether he had children and what his plans were.

He said he had two sons — then paused. I asked if they were local, and after more hesitation, he told me they were in prison. I couldn’t see his face, but I could swear he wiped away a tear.

I would think that if a relative stranger told me his children were incarcerated, I might say something like, “Oh, I’m sorry.” But I surprised myself and asked John why. He told me they were serving long sentences for a series of robberies, but the real cause was drugs.

After a few minutes passed in silence, I told him that my father had died when I was young. He said that he never knew his father. John told me he was raised in what he called a “Negro orphanage” in New York State, and had lived a long, hard life, including serving in the merchant marine.

I guess he sensed that I was feeling sorry for him (I was), and he told me that he was OK with what life had dealt him. He had been in a baseball league at the orphanage that traveled around the region playing against other orphanage teams. On one of those trips, he explained, they got to play a Sunday morning game at Yankee Stadium before a Yankee game.

“I saw Mickey Mantle, Phil Rizzuto, Yogi, all my heroes, standing on the field watching us play,” he recalled. “So whenever I am feeling down, I remind myself that I once played in Yankee Stadium, and I feel special.”

So now I was wiping away a tear, and as we got closer to my hotel, I remembered that on the plane I had just finished reading “The Boys of Summer,” by Roger Kahn. I told him about the book, that it was about the 1955 Brooklyn Dodgers and contained lots about the Yankees as well.

When we got to my destination, I handed him the book and wished him a happy Father’s Day. He got out of the car, gave me a hug and flashed a smile as he wished me the same.

Now, when the third Sunday in June comes around, not only do I look forward to the calls and cards from my own family, I also think about the men who never knew their fathers and the dads who have no choice but to spend Father’s Day alone. John taught me that.

Michael LoMonico,

Stony Brook