I was pretending to be Superman when my mother’s frantic cries for help brought a sudden halt to my game. I ran towards the kitchen faster than a speeding bullet. But a Superman t-shirt with a bath towel tucked into the collar didn’t give me superhuman strength. Peering just below the vinyl seat of our yellow kitchen chairs, my eyes widened as Dad pinned my mother to the cold linoleum floor. He was a large man, standing 6’1”, and Mum was 4’6”. The image seemed surreal, like a horror movie, and I stood frozen in fear. There was an odor of carnage as Dad hovered over her. Maybe it was the mixture of sweat and testosterone rising from his green work shirt. Pure, unfiltered terror flooded my body and my heart beat so fast it seemed to smash against my ribs. Dad was hurting Mum. Nothing can be more terrifying for a four year old. A young boy’s mother is his world. She was my life giver, my first love, my heart and soul. The thought of anyone harming her was truly horrifying and beyond my comprehension, especially when that someone was my father. Hearing my big sister crying hysterically and begging Dad to stop only added to the horror.
Believing I was Superman, leaping on Dad’s back seemed the right thing to do. I would save the day, just like on television. The bad guy would quickly surrender, once he realized I meant business. I’d amaze him with my super strength, wrestle him away from Mum with a stern face and furrowed brow, adding a few appropriate words for good measure. He would beg for mercy, plead for Mum’s forgiveness, and all would be well again. She would call me her hero and we’d all live happily ever after. At least that was the plan. Grasping the thick collar of Dad’s shirt with both hands, I reeled back with all my might. The results weren’t quite as I’d anticipated. I kept tugging and pleading with him to release her. But there’s not much a small boy can do to extricate his mother from the underbelly of a raging 220-pound man. Startled and annoyed, he flung me off effortlessly. I tried again. It was as if he’d discovered a spider had crawled down his neck. “Get the hell off me”, he growled. He flung me across the room and I shared a swirling view of the tobacco stained ceiling tiles with Mum. It was enough to divert his attention and he released her. He glared down at us and cursed to himself as he lumbered through the kitchen door and down the hall. In much the way an angry bear lumbers off into the woods after attacking a group of campers.
Dad always reminded me of a bear. He was a barrel-chested man with thick, hairy wrists. His fists were large and solid, like two sacks of ball bearings. His chest protruded when he walked, shoulders arched back, as if he was balancing something on each one. He was. It was a chip, a grudge, and he carried one on each shoulder. His face always challenged anyone passing by to knock it off, which was also one of his favorite expressions. Dad had the eyes of a grizzly, too, when someone aroused his anger; and it didn’t take much. It could be something as small as dinner not being on the table at five p.m. sharp or the newspaper arriving late. God help the paperboy who delivered Dad’s Boston Globe late.
I’ve never met anyone like my father. He worked as a railroad station janitor and his duties included pest control. When a stray pigeon flew inside the building, as they sometimes would, Dad was the kind of man who would flatten it with a steel shovel. And he did. At least that’s what he told us over supper one day. When I was five Mum talked him into taking me to a baseball game at Boston’s Fenway Park. He didn’t want to take me, but she pressured him and he finally agreed. When you’re five years old, walking into a stadium filled with wall-to-wall baseball fans is an overwhelming sensation. It was the most fantastic view I’d ever seen and I couldn’t resist staring at the sea of people surrounding us. Dad thought I should be focused on the game. I really did try, but I just couldn’t take my eyes off the crowd or the vendors hawking hot dogs and peanuts up and down the aisles. I asked if we could have a hot dog. He lost his temper. Less than five minutes into the game he grabbed my arm and dragged me to the parking lot. He shouted at me all the way home and swore he’d never take me to another baseball game. He never did. Months later, Mum asked him to play catch with me in the backyard. I can still hear the hissing sound as the ball approached me. He threw the ball hard, straight at my face, laughing as the blood ran from my nose. It hurt and I cried. He instantly turned angry, called me a momma’s boy, and stormed off to his living room chair. We never played catch again. Dad didn’t play ball with crybabies.
