Justin Halpern: Sh*t My Dad Says

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been poor. So has your mom. There are a lot of things in my life that I try really hard to make sure you never have to experience.”

“So why can’t this be one of them?” I asked.

“Son, you’re spending a week eating shitty food. Your mom spent her whole childhood hungry. When you get up and throw a fit like you did tonight, it makes her feel like shit. It’s like you’re saying you don’t care what she went through. That make sense?”

I told him that it did, and he told me why my behavior had also upset him.

“Food was a huge part of my life growing up. It’s how we made our living, not just what we ate. So when you throw a fucking tantrum about it, it gets to me,” he said.

“But why do you not have to eat it? Mom’s eating it, and she already knows what it’s like. Why don’t you have to eat it?” I persisted.

He sat quiet for a second, then took his hand off my shoulder.

“Well, two reasons. The first one is that I know the value of a dollar, because I work every goddamned day to make them—something you’ve never done.”

“But Mom works, too,” I interrupted.

“Well, that brings me to my second reason: Your mom’s a lot fucking nicer than I am.”

Then he kissed me on my forehead and left the room.

“Okay, smile when you open your present…. No, smile and look at the camera, dum-dum.”

“No, I’m gonna stay home. You can take a family vacation, and I’ll take a vacation from the family. Trust me, it’ll make both of our time more enjoyable.”

“Hot damn! You’re a smart kid—I don’t care what people say about you!… I’m kidding, nobody says you’re not smart. They say other stuff, but not that.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. Does your throat feel like it’s closing up?… Do you have to take a crap?… No, that don’t have anything to do with bee stings, it’s just you’re pacing back and forth, I thought maybe you had to go.”

“How the fuck should I know if it’s still good? Eat it. You get sick, it wasn’t good. You people, you think I got microscopic fucking eyes.”

“You’re going to run into jerk-offs, but remember: It’s not the size of the asshole you worry about, it’s how much shit comes out of it.”

“I just want silence…. Jesus, it doesn’t mean I don’t like you. It just means right now, I like silence more.”

When I was ten years old, my father, against his better judgment, volunteered to coach my Little League team. Six months later, in the spring of 1991, Sam Halpern’s coaching career came to an abrupt and angry end.

When my dad moved to Point Loma, our seaside San Diego suburb, in 1972, it was mostly a military community. He had served in the navy, and the familiar atmosphere and like-minded residents made him feel welcome. Over the years, Point Loma’s proximity to the beach made it a desirable neighborhood to the wealthy, and huge houses sprouted up all around our modest three-bedroom home. My dad was not pleased. “I refuse to become a fucking yuppie by proxy,” he announced after a young couple moved in next door, replacing one of the last of the old military officers who had once lived on our street.

Consequently, when I was growing up, my local Little League team, Tom Ham’s Lighthouse, was filled with the children of these people my dad disliked, and for the most part, they were spoiled, disrespectful kids. I knew almost right away it probably wasn’t the best idea that my dad coach this team, but he loved baseball, and he loved me, and I think in his mind he figured that was enough.

My dad’s only rule as a coach was that all the kids play the same amount of innings per game, no matter their skill level. “It’s Little League. You’re all terrible for the most part, and that’s okay. The only way you’re going to stink less is by playing,” he told us at our first team meeting.

So every game, my teammates and I rotated on and off the field, each of us playing four of the six innings. Sometimes the rotations wouldn’t work out perfectly, and if someone had to sit out three of the innings instead of two, that someone would be me. “You’re actually good, and you know it. These other kids, it’s fucking waterworks when I take them out of the game,” my dad said to console me.

“So if I cried, I could play? That’s not fair.”

“No, if you cried, I’d still bench you, and then I’d bench you more for crying about not playing an inning in a goddamned Little League game. You’re my son, and life’s a bitch.”

During his first couple months as head coach, my dad did not exactly become a fan favorite among my teammates and their parents, who found his even-playing-time rule incorrigible. At one point during a game, one of the kids’ parents started mouthing off at him from the stands, furious that his kid wasn’t playing more.

“We’re losing because of you! Why would you bench the best player?! It’s moronic!” my snot-nosed teammate’s father yelled.

“Best player? I don’t know what fucking game he’s watching,” my dad mumbled to himself.

The parent kept at it, clearly oblivious to my dad’s growing anger and frustration. When the inning was finally over, Coach Halpern burst out of the dugout and stormed into the stands.

“Everyone plays the same amount of innings, that’s my rule. This ain’t the goddamned World Series, it’s Little League. Our right-fielder picks his butt all game, and he gets that rule. Why don’t you?”

My dad’s flare-up quieted the parents for the time being, but behind the scenes, I would hear rumblings from my teammates.

At fielding practice a week or so later, a kid named Marcus tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and he said, “My dad says your dad is an asshole.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I just stood there for a few moments. Finally, I responded, “No, he’s not. Your dad’s wrong.”

Then a baseball hit me on my shin, and I turned and realized it had been my turn in the ground ball line, and my dad had just hit one at me because I wasn’t paying attention.

“Pay attention, son! Don’t stand there with your thumb up your ass.”

My dad was not helping my case for him.

Each practice, the parents and the spoiled kids would get to him a little more. He wanted this experience to just be about teaching baseball, but it wasn’t. It was more of an unwelcome exercise in tolerance and self-restraint.

Finally, the friction came to a head during a practice in May. The temperature was hot that day, and the kids decided they didn’t feel like doing my dad’s conditioning drills, which he had learned during his time in the navy. After a series of foul-pole-to-foul-pole sprints, one of them staged a revolt and refused to follow his orders.

“This is dumb. Baseball isn’t about running. Any real coach would know that,” my teammate shouted, standing defiantly in front of my dad.

The instant the sound of that kid’s insubordinate voice hit our fearless leader’s ears, my dad had the same reaction Bruce Willis has at the end of The Sixth Sense when he realizes he’s been dead the whole time: complete shock and confusion, followed by deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. My dad’s efforts to remain cool were futile.