The Day After

“Anything but Boxing” day

The day after Christmas was my father’s birthday. If he had not kicked the bucket over a third of a century ago he would be 98 years old today. I can’t imagine him sticking it out that long.

As a kid I always felt sorry for him that his birthday fell on the day after such a big holiday. How anti-climactic. Family and friends are all surely “celebrated out” by the time Christmas Day is ripped off the page-a-day calendar. When we kids did our Christmas shopping we always had to remember to buy two presents for Dad; one for Christmas and one birthday present for the day after. It was hard enough to just think of one present for him.

Mother never baked him a birthday cake like she did for us kids. I’m not sure if anyone else noticed but I sure did. Of course, after all that excessive holiday baking who wants to immediately start baking again? And besides, Dad was not much of a cake eater. Cake just did not go very well with beer.

My father was a natural born athlete. He excelled at every sport he ever indulged in. But there was one sport which he abhorred and which he would never indulge in; neither actively nor as a spectator. And that sport was boxing.

He called it, “Neanderthal.” He called it a celebration of violence. He called it a disgusting testosterone orgy. Okay, maybe…