For My Dad: Memories of a Wahoo life

The computer tells me the file was added on Nov. 2, 2015. I’m not sure why I spent part of that Sunday on this endeavor but I wanted to know: Could I find a picture on the wire from somewhere in the past that showed me at a game?

I searched for pictures of Scott Stadium that day and must have scrolled a long time until I found one that looked like it might work, with a vantage point from the top of our section.

And there, some 20 years earlier, I sat. It was Sept. 30, 1995 and the Cavaliers beat Wake Forest 35-17 that afternoon. It was an absolutely perfect day in Charlottesville. And there, as you can see in the picture above, was pre-expansion Scott Stadium in all of its glory.

And also there, seated next to my mom in Row LL near the top of Section 120, was my dad. Truth be told, I found the curls cascading down the back of his head before I found anyone else.

As you can see, I “drew” an arrow on the pic so I could show my parents. They got such a kick out of it, especially my dad.

He passed away last week at the age of 71 following a brief illness. And ever since I got the news that night, minutes after we finished recording an episode of the podcast oddly enough, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my dad. From the lessons he taught me to the way he loved me and provided for me, he’s been on my mind so much.

So too has his love of the Wahoos.

Something he passed on to me.

You see, outside of a life-long friendship with a UVa grad (and superfan) named Jim Everett and the many games the two trudged up 95 and 64 to see, my dad’s real connection to the university was a from-afar love for the Hoos. That is, of course, until my sister was accepted there in the mid-90s.

My dad and I were a lot alike in a variety of ways, including the fact that we loved those Wahoos despite not having walked the Grounds as students ourselves. But man, did he cheer some kind of hard. Man, did we drive some late nights all the way back to Emporia. Man, did that guy love talking UVa sports.

I can still remember the pride in his voice when I called him the day after Kihei’s pass and later from the Final Four. He was so happy for me that I was in Minneapolis. Jealous as hell, mind you. But so damn proud.

My dad loved to try to find me on TV whenever he thought I might be visible somewhere on press row. He also loved to call me two minutes before a game started to ask me where my seat was that game. But he also loved to call me in the middle of the week, to ask me what was going on with the running game or who would be defending Duke’s best guy.

“Dad,” I liked to joke (okay only partially joking), “I have an entire website for that.”

“Yeah, but I can call the source himself,” he told me more than once.

In the days after the national championship, he followed through on his word and bought every member of the family a championship shirt. He also got me a pair of national title decals, one of which I finally put on my truck the morning of his funeral.

Back in the 1980s, my dad worked for the local radio station, WEVA, first as a DJ and then as a reporter. Though he wasn’t necessarily in sports, he covered some ACC action and a tournament or two. And he loved to bring that up whenever I was in Greensboro or Atlanta or Charlotte.

As I’ve recounted on podcasts before, going to games with my dad and Jimmy Everett (always two names) was an experience. Heaven help you if you stepped off a curb as we were trying to beat traffic. I can still taste those Bellair sandwiches we’d eat in the lower west lot. He loved listening to the radio call from the stands.

I like to think those experiences helped fuel my desire to get into all of this. I know for a fact they fueled my love of the orange and blue.

The first game I remember going to was a 29-28 loss to Clemson, an upset that forever cemented my disdain for the Tiger Rag. My dad got tickets for me and him down in Hooville—and not the customary seats, which would be blamed for the loss more than what transpired on the field, as was our way—and we watched in abject disbelief as Clemson came all the way back to stun the Hoos.

I brought a friend to an NC State game we lost one time and said friend was banished, never to be afforded a spot again. Thems the superstitious rules, as many UVa fans can probably attest.

And as is also the case with many fans I’ve met over the years, my dad was someone who would without hesitation help you out in a pinch….but maybe was not someone you necessarily wanted to watch the game with if the Cavaliers were losing. Especially to Hokies or Tar Heels.

No, my dad was as dyed in the wool as they came. He had more UVa gear than most of UVa’s actual players. I know that having a source he could call whenever he wanted made him crazy happy.

It’s hard to think about an upcoming season with such promise—he really liked what he heard about and from Tony Elliott—and not having those calls. It’s hard to think about a lot of things right now.

Everybody keeps telling me to hold fast to the memories. And I know I will. But that doesn’t blunt the sting of knowing we won’t add more to the list.

I spent so many afternoons like that one above, listening to his commentary and picking up what I could. That eventually he’d call and ask me for my opinion on things was and remains legitimately one of my greatest honors.

I’d give anything to walk in that stadium one more time with him, fumbling with that Walk-Man and headphones so he could get the play-by-play in his ear.

But seated in our seats. Not down in Hooville.

We’re way too superstitious for all that. And that, at least, is something that won’t change.