Matthew Osborne
On Monday night, James Harden found his old magic and had the game of his life as the Philadelphia 76ers stole Game 1 from the Boston Celtics in the NBA playoffs.
Two hours before the game, I called my dad, who has been battling health issues in a hospital and now a rehab center for the last few weeks, to see if he would be watching. But he did not answer.
He is dealing with an illness on top of the chronic battles he is facing every day, and I trust he was sleeping well from the medication. I doubt he saw Harden’s 45-point game on the tiny TV in his room.
A lot of things about Pops’ health battle have been hard for me to reconcile, but in particular, I miss just being able to share the journey – miserable as it may be at times – of our shared sports teams.
Lately, he has not been himself, and we are all hoping he can turn things around for the better. We are hoping for the best while we fear the worst.
But much of the worst has already come, because I know he is unhappy and not at peace. I know he would rather be drinking a beer and watching the 76ers pull out that game. I know he would rather be talking about his grandkids and all the things they are up to.
But right now, he is not able to do that. He’s alive, but not living the life he wants. And I am powerless to help him. That is perhaps the worst feeling of all.
I often write about comedic things and ridiculous observations about life, which I will eventually find my way back to. But right now, it’s just not in me.
When my father was himself, he always tried to find the funny side of things and was never afraid to crack jokes at even the most inappropriate times.
We took him to the theater literally once to see Les Miserables back in the day, and the scene came when all the rebels are slaughtered on the barricade. As the barricade spins on stage, we see all the bodies of the deceased, and it usually renders the theater silent in that somber moment as the orchestra plays softly.
But Pops, seemingly the only person speaking in the theater, said loudly enough for many people to hear, “Well, that was a serious (butt) kicking,” to use the radio edit version.
We left him at home for future shows, and he was happy to sit them out.
Another time we were at Shaq’s last game with the Orlando Magic. At one point, Orlando sharpshooter and former Georgia Tech legend Dennis Scott was struggling mightily to make a shot. I commented, perhaps too loudly, that Scott couldn’t do squat – again, edited for language.
An upset woman in the row in front of us turned around, scoffed at me and looked at my father. “Did he say my brother isn’t worth squat?”
Pops smiled and said, “No, ma’am. He said your brother can’t do squat.”
That’s the stuff I remember, and it’s missing right now, even though he is still here.
Cal watched the second half of the game with me last night, and that felt good to have someone to share it with.
My kids have not been as into sports as Pops and I are, and I don’t know if Cal knew that I needed him by my side for that game. But I did, and I appreciate it.
We don’t know where this road leads right now, but I hope Pops and I have a few more chances to reminisce about old times and maybe share a couple more.
Matthew Osborne is the editor of The Northeast Georgian. Reach him at 706-778-4215 or editor@TheNortheastGeorgian.com.