Alton Howard Goad, circa 1943.
I had so few good times with my father, I’m pretty sure I can remember them all.
There was the time when I was about five or six and he took me and my best friend Tommy Fox to get ice cream.
The time when I was about seven or eight and he took me to see the Phillies play the Cincinnati Reds at old Connie Mack Stadium, and as we sat 100 feet behind home plate, he pointed at the Reds’ young catcher Johnny Bench and told me that kid was going to become a legend.
The time he wrote “Happy Birthday, Jim!” on the chalkboard near our telephone for my tenth birthday before he went to work.
The time he hugged me when I was twelve after I opened my Christmas present, a little black-and-white TV.
Otherwise it was a solid block of…
View original post 887 more words