by Max Brantley
Happy Father's Day. I got to cook.
Line is open. On fathers or whoevever or whatever.
A Father's Day note; I loved my dad. I hope my kids will remember me the way I remember him.
What I remember more than anything was how he managed to stay awake. He took me, until age 15 or 16 when my interests changed, to every McNeese State Cowboy football game in Louisiana. They were nearly always night games. That meant we'd head home to Lake Charles from Ruston, Natchitoches, Monroe, Hammond, Lafayette, Pineville at 10 p.m. or so. Of course we'd have to stop for a hamburger first. And I'd be lost to dreamland, dozing off to the wrapup of the LSU game from Ace Ferguson and the roll call of scores from across the country on the AM radio. I'd sleep, propped up against his shoulder. He'd drive us surely home down the dark two-lanes through the Louisiana swamplands and piney woods.
If there are memories more golden than these, I can't recall them.