My Dad

This is written for me, not for you. Today is my dad's birthday. I have been looking at some pictures and thinking about my dad. Someone asked me how long does it take to get over your parents passing away. My answer is that- you don't ever get over it. I am not saying that I wake up sad everyday or that I even think about my dad everyday. 

There are times when Allen does something wonderful and as a parent you want to brag. I wish you could share it with your parents. Brother Mark and I talk about our childhood, and there seem to be 100 questions that we wish we could ask now. There are so many neat memories and happy memories. But there are times when I think about my dad that I can't help but get emotional and watering eyed. It still hurts.

Today my dad would be 118 years old. But to me, he is still 64 like he was when he died. He was 52 years old when I was born. He had not gotten married until he was 49 years old. My mother was younger and she claimed she didn't know how old my dad was until they went for the marriage license.

Dad in the middle at Middlebury bible school.

Dad had grown up in rural southwest Wisconsin. He went to a one room school house in Adamsville, which was just down the hill about a mile from the family homestead farm. He and all four of his brothers went here to school. He went onto graduate from the University of Wisconsin- Platteville, where he played football. Eventually he got his masters degree from the University of Wisconsin- Madison.

All of his brothers were at one time in farming. He chose to become a teacher. He taught in a small school in Wisconsin before moving to Fulton and then eventually Savanna. Throughout his career, he coached basketball and was an assistant football coach. Shortly after Mark and I were born, he quit coaching. As a young kid, I naively was sure he was going to coach again when we got to high school. At the time of his death, he taught Physics and U.S. History. I have never heard of anyone with this combination. He was also the sponsor for the Student Council and the Athletic Director.

Dad, Grandma Massey, Uncle Glenn, Uncle Oswald,
Uncle Wendell, and Uncle Dwayne.

Besides teaching, he bought a farm and rented it out. And he bought 40 acres of a brother's farm, when the brother got out of farming. So every summer, we loaded up in the car and headed to Wisconsin for 3 months. Every summer my dad got up and went to "work." He didn't take days off, he went and cut thistles, fenced, or white-washed the barn.

I always thought it was his way of showing his brothers that he could still work. It seemed like every time we ran into his brothers, there was a banter back and forth about how easy teachers had it. So I figured he was doing the farming thing to stay connected to his roots and to maybe show teachers could work.

Our summer cottage on Orval & Betty's farm.

Years later when I talked to my mom, she told me he kept the farm because of coaching. I didn't understand. She said he had told her that he bought the farm and kept it so he always had it to fall back on. According to her, owning the farm reduced his stress- he was less concerned about if he got fired as a coach.

I remember only three things in our house that reminded one of my dad's basketball coaching. In one hallway, there was a small framed picture of his 1936 Fulton team that made it to the Elite 8. In the living room, in the back of a cabinet there was a small autographed basketball from one of his Fulton teams. And in the cottage in Wisconsin, in the back of a cabinet there was a 3 foot banner proclaiming "Masseymen." It was a something used at the welcome back for the 1936 team.

1929 Fulton team.

In our basement, we had a full basketball court- kind of. My dad didn't do things halfway. He had two regulation hoops at each end of the basement. One was probably 6 foot and the other 5'6". It was the neighborhood court in the winter after school. We had great games until Mark hit his head on the rim.

Like many parents, my dad was busy and he was old. But one of my best memories was when he would come to the basement to play basketball with me. First we would "practice" where he would work on something with me. Usually it meant weakhand dribbling and weakhand layups. In fact, he overdid it so much that Mark as a right hander can't really go right. But after we "practiced", then we would play a game. When I was 5-6 years old, I can remember running upstairs to tell Mom how I beat him again- I never lost to him. Then he must have worked on his game, by the time I was in 4-5th grades, I would lose sometimes to him. Lessons learned!

1936 Fulton team that made it the Elite 8 in a one-class system.

Sundays were a day for us to go to the high school to "help" Dad. Nobody was ever there, just us. Often we would bring along neighbor kids. We had the run of the whole high school. Teachers had chairs with wheels and the halls were really long- there were great races on them. We would go to the gym and the deal was that fifteen minutes belonged to my dad. We had to do whatever he wanted for fifteen minutes- which usually meant some basketball skills drill. After he left to go to his room, we could do whatever we wanted. Sometimes we kept playing basketball, but we had some of the greatest kick ball games in the world.

As the son of an athletic director, I had all-access to the high school events. The high school athletes were my heroes. I learned to count going to basketball games with my dad. I went with him when he went to talk to coaches after games- it was like little clinics. I went with him into the locker room after a wrestling match at Rock Island, to see the coach having a wrestler pinned against the locker while he searched his locker for cigarettes- which he found. At a young age, I learned what coaches were thinking.

Fulton 1936 results. They beat both Rockford & Freeport.

It didn't always go well having a Dad in teaching and coaching. I was hanging out at a track meet and was by myself. One of the high school athletes, who was a hero, came up to me and said, "Your dad is an asshole." At 11 years old, I really didn't know what to say. I just know the kid succeeded in doing what he wanted- he hurt my feelings.

But I have many good memories of hanging out at Savanna HS with Dad. He really promoted the idea of doing three sports. He awarded a medallion to each graduating senior who had done three sports for three years. After his death, they created the Massey Award to give to the outstanding athlete who had played three sports for four years. My senior year, I won that award. It meant so much to me but it meant a lot more to my mom.

Fulton Gym

At Fulton, they still give an award in the athletic department named for my dad. There is a banner in the Fulton gym to acknowledge his selection into the Illinois Basketball Coaches Association Hall of Fame. At Savanna, the football field was named in his honor.

Many, many good memories. One of my favorite memories was when my mom was gone for the evening so Dad was cooking. We had Pat Davis over for supper. Dad fixed hamburgers. Pat went home and told his mom, Jean,"It was the best hamburger I have ever eaten." My mom and Jean, who did all the cooking in their houses found it funny but a little annoying. My mother asked my dad what his secret was. His reply, "I forgot to put the salt on it, but you and Jean need to realize the boys just might find me more entertaining."

Happy birthday, Dad!