I never really felt close to my dad when I was younger. We lived in the same house, yet in separate worlds.
He was struggling to raise a wife and at the time two kids in a strange country, juggling two jobs as a busboy and bartender in Yonkers, New York. He took the bus and the train to work, forever apprehensive about driving a car. Despite his time constraints, I often found him in the Kitchen at home, wearing shorts and sandals while meticulously cooking recipes from his homeland from arroz con gandules y carne guizada to tostones con chuletas, at which he often made jokes like the time his brother in law that just arrived from Puerto Rico and wanted to order some fried plantains and pork chops and did not know how and when the server asked him what will he like to order, his response was "Please, can I have some chulets and tostons". ( Que jodon )
Mom wisely deferred to his cooking expertise. Upon first arriving in the United States from Puerto Rico, she tried to cook some arroz con gandules and the gandules just floated on top of the rice or my father asked for some egg's over easy and she trashed the yoke and fried the rest of the egg. In this case Father knew best.
I was just a kid, in the streets of the South Bronx playing some stick ball and wondering why my father never was around to play catch at the corner of Fox and Simpson St. in font of Casita Maria and teach me the nuances of throwing a curve ball. American sports never captured his interest. Baseball, Basketball the Beatles, White Castle, Chevys, that just was not " Papi ". I think he never watch a game with me till I was like 21 years of age, by then we been living in Puerto Rico and the Yankees stadium was far, far away, but I still could smell the hot dogs and popcorn aroma that only comes from that part of 161ND ST in New York.
There were other barriers besides work and no play. He was 34 when I was born and did not have the company of my brother till I was 5, and the next generation gap became more pronounced as I adjusted quickly to a new language while he was learning to pronounce simple "hellos".
He was a little guy, scraping 5'5", skinny good looking Latino male, my brother(Roberto),sister(Vanessa) and me of course, we got stuck with his good looking, short-people, intelligent genes; well not the skinny part. Well, my baby brother, Roberto give's me the chills, because at this time and age he has all the fiscal characteristics of my father, the older he becomes the more they look alike.( Carajo! De tal palo tal astilla)
It was only until much later that I realized that the true measure of a man is in his heart.
None bigger than my "Pop's".
We did move back to Puerto Rico, but as we grew up and got married, we slowly moved back to the United States but this time to Florida. It was here in Orlando, Florida that we buried him, April 08, 1998, and the pit inside my stomach still gnaws at me as I try to come to grips with life's inevitable term.
There are no guilty pangs for me now, only sadness. I saw him alive for the last time earlier that night. By then, old age and illness had become deadly adversaries. He was 77, he couldn't walk, blind and could only speak a few coherent words. We all got to see him that night, and we all let him know how much we loved and that no matter the time that will pass we will still love him for the kind of person and role model he was for us. As I left the nursing home that night, I looked at the hall and only could remember the times when he would sit in his wheel chair for hours in a living room among a handful of other shriveled souls in that assisted-care facility. Heaven's waiting room, as I use to call it.
Benito Martínez Collado drew his last breath at 05:45 a.m. on April 07.1998.
I'll miss him dearly, but I will feel his spirit enrich me every day of my life. In lieu of curve balls and spirals, he passed on his passion for the unconditional love and sacrifice for his homeland of Puerto Rico and his family.
They were lessons that came later in life, long after I buried my whimsical dreams of joining my baseball-card heroes in the big leagues.
He showed a kind and humble spirit, always appreciative of country that welcome his family with opportunity and hope.
He showed me sacrifice by leaving his homeland for the sake of his children, ensuring that their futures would be unencumbered by the economical situation of Puerto Rico in the early 40's.
He showed me unconditional love with his commitment to his wife (Yolanda) and family. Mom and Dad were together 42 years,( Mom was with Dad till his last minute, at all times taking care of his needs, " THANKS MOM " from the bottom of my heart.), gathering a lifetime of precious memories while other couples gave up in a world of disposable convenience
I drew a deep breath and wiped the tears from my eyes, forever appreciative of that gentle spirit in his shorts and sandals and his bermuda socks.
You didn't make me a baseball player, but you made me a man.
Gracias, Papí. Te quiero mucho. Always
Muuuuuuuaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!
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