My Dad, and Pulling for the Home Team

I wasn’t always the sports fanatic you know me as today. In fact, as a child I was more interested in other things: eating candy, playing with friends, eating more candy, etc. Not that this is especially unusual. Most kids don’t have the patience for a three hour game, unless of course said game involves turning on an Xbox.

But I eventually found my true calling when I was drawn in by the drama and passion of sports. I can still remember the moments when I first got into football, then basketball, and finally baseball. It wasn’t long until I was living and dying with my favorite teams, and the biggest reason for my transformation into a diehard was my father, Johnny Maxwell.

My dad was never the traditional sports fan. Then again, he was never the traditional anything. He never belonged to any clubs or groups who followed this team or that one. He didn’t always sport gear in support of his favorites everywhere he went. He didn’t even get to watch as many games as some of us do, what with the long hours he always worked. But that doesn’t mean that he cared any less.

We always pulled for the home team, dad and I. I can remember watching the 1987 Liberty Bowl between our beloved Georgia Bulldogs and the Arkansas Razorbacks with him. The score was tied late in the game, and he kept saying that he didn’t want the game to end in a tie. When I asked him if he’d rather see Arkansas win than a tie, he looked at me and said “I’d rather see Georgia win.”

My dad’s love of sports extended beyond college football though. Many were the Sunday afternoons, Saturday evenings, and weeknights that we cheered on our favorite pro sports teams, even during the too frequent seasons when the Braves, Falcons, and Hawks gave us little to cheer about. The great thing about being  diehard fans is that we were there on those wonderful occasions when great things did happen. If Ozzie Virgil hit a walk-off home run, or Sylvester Stamps tied the game with a fourth quarter touchdown, we were there to enjoy it.

Over the years, we went to so many games together;  just the two of us at first, then later on with my younger brother. I’ll never forget the night at Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium in 1991 when David Justice hit a three-run homer in the bottom of the ninth to send a game against San Diego to extra innings. Most of the crowd had gone home following the disastrous top of the inning, in which Doug Sisk (remember him? No, I didn’t think you would) was lit up like a Christmas tree by Padres hitters. But dad and I saw it. Why? Because he always made sure we stayed to the very end, no matter what the score.

There were other games. So many games. I watched the Hawks any number of times at the Omni during the Dominique Wilkins era. I Witnessed Falcons games at both Fulton-County Stadium and the Georgia Dome. I was there for good seasons and bad. On  top of the games we saw live, I couldn’t begin to count the ones we watched on television (God bless TBS!), from the time I was a kid until well into adulthood.

I remember watching games one and two of the 1995 World Series with my dad and brother at my grandparents’ house as Atlanta took a 2-0 lead. I can still recall the anticipation of winning it all that we all felt at the conclusion of game two. I’ll never forget sitting in the same spot and witnessing the Falcons come through in the final game of the 1995 season, when a loss meant the end of the season.Most of all I remember two specific games; the last one I attended with my dad, and the last one I was supposed to attend with him.

The first one wasn’t an important game at the time, though it has certainly become one since. We were at Turner field when Troy Glaus (forgot him too, didn’t you?) hit a walk-off home run. The second was a Falcons game vs Carolina in 2010, where a win meant a rare division title. My dad was unable to make it to the game that day to witness the Falcons win. No big deal, I thought. There will be a next time. But as it turned out, there wasn’t.

On May 20, 2011, my father passed away due to complications from a stroke. The days before and after his death remain the longest of my life, and this time of year always inspires mixed emotions for me. But even though he is gone, I still feel his presence. After every big win by one of our teams, I can even picture him, sitting in his recliner and smoking a cigarette with a big smile on his face.

Tomorrow will be the fourth anniversary of his death. It will also mark the beginning of the biggest postseason series in Atlanta Hawks history. After all the years, they’ve made it to the Eastern Conference Finals. My dad was the first person I thought of when Paul Pierce’s miracle shot was waved off, and the last person I thought of before going to sleep that night.

When we take the floor vs Cleveland, I’ll think of my father again. I know he would be proud of this team. Hopefully the Hawks can keep it going; they’ve already done so much more than anyone expected when the season began. Wherever he is these days, I know he’ll be watching. It’ll be almost like he’s right there beside me, rooting them on. In fact, I can almost smell the smoke from his ever present Winston Lights.

Whatever happens in the series, to me we’ve already won. Don’t get me wrong, I want very badly to win it all. But sometimes baby steps are the order of the day. I’ll be pulling my heart out when game one tips off, and I know that the rest of you will be doing the same. Thinking about it all, I just can’t help but smile. Go Hawks!