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My father spends every second these days talking about when I was in high school.

He asks questions about the people I went to school with.

He talks shit about former coaches.

He recalls old teachers.

He tells sports story after sports story.

He goes all the way back to middle school—even elementary.

He has a way of talking about women and sports that makes me uncomfortable.

I remember reading one of the Russian classics Fathers And Sons.

By Turgenev (or something like that.)

How disconnected the older generation gets to the younger can be a real problem in family relationships.

It was a great book.

I don’t really enjoy talking about high school,

But we circle back to it over and over and over again.

It’s hard for me to remember that a big part of this man exists in my own behavior and mannerisms.

We aren’t that alike in some ways,

But identical in others.

He hums Christmas carols all year round.

And I do too.

He is obsessed with women,

And yeah,

Me too.

We just inherit parts of our parents.

No matter how hard I try

I can’t stop humming.

It’s one of the many things about me that’s on autopilot.

My father

Always comes bearing gifts.

He brought me a white shirt.


Brand new.

And I wore it for 12 hours before getting chocolate from a keto ice cream bar all over it.

He once got me a watch.

A pretty nice one.

It was a Christmas gift.

I lost it at my gym in February.

As a kid

I lost my jackets all the time.

I left my baseball gloves in dugouts.

I’d lose everything my parents would buy me.

Or break it.

But here’s the thing,

My father is the same way.

It’s another one of those traits I inherited from him.


He can’t get mad at me,



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