That Dude

Cousin BDP composed a reflection about our grandpa last night. I woke up to the email this morning. We both toasted grandpa with Jameson's last night without knowing it -- maybe at the same time. By permission, here is BDP's fantastic piece:

That Dude

When you work with young people every day, you pick up a lot of slang. Kids are coming up with new words every day, and most of them are gone by the end of the semester. Very few of them stick with me, but sometimes a word or expression comes along that allows me to capture something my current vocabulary would never allow.

As I’ve been preparing myself for the death of my grandfather over the last several months, the expression that inevitably emerges is…that dude.

My grandfather was that dude. He was that dude that knew everybody, every where, that ever did anything interesting. He was that dude that instantly drew you in and made you feel good about yourself, no matter who you were. He was that dude came out of the house dressed something fierce every single time. He was THAT dude.

I never lived close to my grandpa, so we didn’t spend a whole lot of extended time together. But I got to witness, like most of us grandkids did, just how magnetic his charm was anytime we went anywhere with him. For me, I realized it during spring training in Florida, a rite of passage for many of us sports fans in the family. I went down on the spring break of my 5^th grade year, and grandpa took me to two games. In the course of those two days, he introduced me to one of the coaches of the Expos; got me a ball signed by the whole team, including one of my biggest idols at the time; got ahold of the bat that Andres Gallaraga broke during the game, and had him sign it; and coaxed me into asking Ricky Henderson, the greatest base stealer to ever play the game, for an autograph. That was one day. It makes me laugh to think about who I could have met had a actually hung out with Big Ed for more than a few days at a time. Jimmy Hoffa?

That dude.

The last day I spent with my grandpa was in the hospital a little over a month ago. He wasn’t doing well, but he mustered some lucidity every few minutes over the course of our couple of hours together. In the midst of me asking him stories about his life, he mentioned that he had been the head of police at Ebbets Field for the Dodgers, and that he’d managed to build pretty tight relationships with several of the players. I think I’d heard it before, but it never occurred to me to ask what the time period was. Then he mentioned the early 50s, and I about jumped out of my seat. “YOU MET JACKIE ROBINSON!!!” Yes, he answered, he had considered Jackie to be a good friend.

Are you kidding me? That one had never come up before?

That dude.

And I don’t doubt that they were friends, because my grandfather made friends with everyone that he ever came into contact with. He was quick with a compliment, a term of endearment, a wry smile. My grandpa had a smile that you had to respond to. He was a flirt. He was courteous. He made you feel good to be in a room with him. Though I’m sure he gave them more than their share of work, my mom and others report that every nurse he had as things got close to the end fell in love with him. We all did.

He was that dude.

And I don’t know what it was like to grow up with him, but I know that he was a fantastic grandpa. He told great stories. He always asked about us. He did all the right grandpa things. Watching him sit in a room with all of us, and watch us, was as big a treat as I can imagine. He was so proud to have had something to do with all of us being here, and he relished the opportunity to bask in it. When his mind grew feebler, and he frequently repeated himself, what I heard most often were expressions of how lucky he felt, how there was nothing better than being in our family, and how much he loved all of us. He may not have always remembered everyone’s name, but he knew that we were his.

That dude.

And he made us proud to call him ours. There was nothing like the anticipation of picking grandpa up and wondering what he’d be wearing. Would it be the plaid pants and sweater vest, or the white slacks and matching cap. Grandpa had style for days, and not even the remnants from his lunch on his shirt could taint his flyness. He wasn’t some fuddy-duddy old dude that you had to cart around and make excuses for. He made you want to step your game up, so that you could match the old guy you were rolling with.

Again, he was that dude.

And he relished it. He knew, humbly, that he was that dude, and he took his cues from the best there ever was. He loved his music, and more than anything, he loved his Frankie. The most fitting way, then, to end this is to use the words of grandpa’s favorite, old Blue Eyes, from one manifestation of that dude to another.

I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried.
I’ve had my fill; my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.

To think I did all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
No, oh no not me,
I did it my way.

Thank you grandpa. For loving us. For making us laugh. For doing it your way.

You were, and always will be, THAT dude.

I love you.