2B — April 20, 2015
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
SportsMonday
SPORTSMONDAY COLUMN
Somebody has to care
B
efore I had the Daily, I
lived for those weekends.
The ones filled with
football and
baseball early
in the fall,
when I could
sit in front of
the TV and
watch games
all day. Those
were the
days I could
name starting
lineups,
where players
went to college and God knows
how many stats.
I was eight years old, at the
house on Merrick Street. I would
mimic the sport on TV because I
was too excited to just sit down.
Sometimes, the games on TV
were too tense to run around, so I
moved closer to the TV clutching
my football.
I was so enthralled with the
skill that went into hitting a
100-mph fastball or hitting a
buzzer-beating 3-pointer. I felt a
sense of belonging, of pride and
happiness, the kind you can’t get
anywhere else, when I saw my
favorite teams win.
Dad had been in and out on one
of those afternoons, cleaning the
old garage, when he returned to
the living room. I began pleading,
really crying, for him to join me
on the couch. I hadn’t been able to
attend games, so watching them
on TV was the closest I could get
to those moments.
“Dad, it’s the Tigers on right
now,” I said. “They’re down two
runs, you have to watch.”
“That’s all right, I’ll check in
later,” he said, ready to turn back.
“There’s plenty of work to finish
up outside.”
“Well, somebody has to care
about this stuff, Dad,” I shouted,
tears running.
He looked at me, silent and
confused. He turned to my mom
for an answer. I lived for this
weekend; Dad didn’t. He went
back to work. I watched the game
alone.
Two years later, Mom
purchased season tickets to the
Toledo Mud Hens for the family.
I cheered the announcement,
hugged her because I could
finally go to a game in person.
She thought they’d be good
to make us get out and stay
together, but Mom despised
baseball games — “They just
never end,” she’d say — and my
sister, Elizabeth, looked for
anything else to do.
So Dad and I went together,
just the two of us. He’d buy me a
sausage and peppers from Sofo’s,
he’d grab a beer for himself, and
we would watch a bunch of guys
we’d never heard of. I’d be upset
when they lost and chatty when
they won. He was indifferent,
looking at programs and chatting
up the neighbors in the seats.
On weekdays in the summer,
when we had moved to the house
on Amsler, I’d sit outside on the
brick porch
steps. Dad used
to call to say
he was coming
home, so I sped
through dinner
and rushed
outside to wait
for him.
I’d hold
my new red-
and-blue mitt,
tossing the ball
to myself while Dad’s mitt was
waiting. He’d come home in a
shirt and tie, as usual, and most
times he’d say he had to change
and eat. I’d roll my eyes and beg
him to hurry.
His shoulder was almost
always sore, so he threw
underhand pop-ups and
grounders as I kept running
and running as the sun faded. I
didn’t have many close friends in
Adrian, but Dad was there.
I still watched games night
after night. My parents put me to
bed and I’d proceed to form my
pillows into the shape of a body
under my sheets. I’d sneak to
the basement to watch whatever
game was on. Dad found out,
after a few weeks, but he didn’t
stop me. He saw how much I
cared.
And he saw how much I cared
about playing sports too, so he
did what he could to support
me. When the middle school
basketball team needed a coach,
I begged him once more, “Dad,
please, I can’t play unless you’re
there.” I cared, and he watched
the way I pouted. He coached us
that season.
When I ran cross country in
high school, he helped pay for
all six pairs of shoes because
I researched them for hours.
Eventually, he’d take the
stopwatch with Mom and call out
times when I asked.
Really, though, no one cared
like I did until I walked into the
Daily in January of my freshman
year. There, I
found people as
crazy as me.
I called
Mom and Dad
in January, “I
know what I
want to do. I
want to write
sports.”
I wrote
as much as I
could, called
Mom and Dad again, begging
them to read my stories “just this
time.” Sometimes, they did read.
Sometimes they just listened.
They sat silent when I told
them about trekking back from
Sault Ste. Marie in the middle of
a blizzard with Laurila driving.
They laughed as I told them
about singing Mulan in the
middle of Iowa to keep Jeremy
awake. And they cheered when
I told them that the great people
at Sporting News wanted the
kid who cared so much for an
internship.
I called to tell them when I
met Dan and Alejandro, who
also moved close to the TV. We
all groaned when Trey Burke’s
block was called a foul, and we all
argued about what we thought
was wrong with Michigan
football (but this column is
already long enough). We moved
in with David, we drank (a lot of)
cheap beer and we all cared.
Imagine if I hadn’t started
believing that day that someone
had to care? How lucky was I
to have a place where I had met
my best friends, to find people
who found the joy in watching
a step-back 3-pointer save
the day or 40-yard heave fall
into Roy Roundtree’s hands. I
became passionate about beating
(destroying) The State News,
about fighting in a game of chair
monkey with Max and Max or
breaking a light with Alejandro.
And so at the Daily, watching
sports and telling stories —
like Andrew Copp’s or Drake
Johnson’s, athletes, students who
cared enough about what they
did and who they were to share
— were ways for me to speak to
Dad. He cared for me as I cared
for the 50 members of the sports
section.
Eventually, Dad even learned
how to use the iPad to read my
stories — he had never even
turned on a computer before that.
A year ago, during a hockey
game, I sat in the press box when
the police officer came over
calling my name (I should have
stopped stealing Cokes). She
announced that my father had
come up, said he needed to see
me. It was the first time he had
come to a game at which I was
working.
I left my seat, watching the
other reporters snicker and stare.
I found him laughing with an
usher.
“Pretty neat setup you get up
here,” my dad said. “What’d did
you have to eat? And look at all
these TVs. Did you see me down
there at all?” He walked around
and lingered in the middle of that
2-1 game, smiling the entire time.
I stayed in that moment briefly
— long enough to realize that
Dad had always cared. And that
someone — the Daily, Dad and
I — always would.
Garno could have written 1,200
more words about his mother and
sister, both of whom have shown
more love and support than he
could have asked. He thanks you,
the reader, for caring enough to
follow along. He’ll be covering
the Chicago Cubs and White
Sox for MLB.com this summer,
where he’s bound to run into
Alejandro once more. Garno can
be reached at ggarno@umich.
edu or on Twitter: @G_Garno.
COURTESY OF THE GARNO FAMILY
Greg Garno and his dad bonded over baseball when Greg was younger.
“I know what
I want to do. I
want to write
sports.”
GREG
GARNO