El Dia de la Padre

In medicine we often speak of a support system.  After a woman gives birth to an infant I always enquire regarding her support system and no I am not referring to her panty hose or brazier.  I want to know, does she have family in town, is she married, other children, friends, etc.  I want to make sure she has someone to lean on when times are tough and most of us know times can be very tough with a newborn.  Well, I would like to take a moment and write of my support system growing up at home.  Since this is Father's day, I will focus on my dad.


My father was his children's biggest fan.  He attended every single sporting event.  He attended every single musical event.  These included events that were on an island in the Pacific Ocean or 10 hours away northeast of California in Utah Valley.  My father would get in the car after work at 6pm on a Friday evening and drive either through the night or stopping once to attend a basketball game the following day at the Marriott Center.  He somehow, always had a press pass, either because he worked for Kodak and took professional pictures or because of his "Santiago Wear", and he would sit on the ground and snap shots of my brother and his teammates.  Then within 24 hours he would turn around and drive back another 10 hours to get to work on Monday.  How did I know?  Well, I was usually accompanying him.  


He attended my sister's recitals, my other brother's football games, my musicals and that reference to the island was for Gaka's sporting events, my oldest brother who attended college in Hawaii.  During my high school years, my father would sit in the stands with a video camera.  He filmed each of my games.  Then he would review them with me and either give pointers or simply watch the game over again with me for second time.  Dad continues this legacy as he now supports his grandchildren and their endeavors.  He recently attended a phenomenal performance by a grandchild who played lead in a high school musical.  By the end of the performance, there was a puddle under his chair from his constant tears.  He seems to be touched easier as he gets older.


Out of all these, however, I will never forget a particular moment where his presence and embrace impacted me for life.  I was playing high school basketball in my senior year.  As a member of my family, there was a lot of pressure to do well in sports.  My three older brothers all held records in the high school, including Gaka for most handsome athlete, and so I was the caboose intended to out shine them all.  However, I was missing a few inches compared to two of them and a lot of talent compared to all of them.  Regardless, I had a fighting spirit especially when we competed against Wilson.  They were our biggest rival and this particular year they were good.  We were not half bad but our team was made more of cooperation and spirit as opposed to height and talent.  The game was played before a packed Wilson Gym.  I was playing against some friends that had come to the house when we were in elementary school to dunk on our outside height-adjusting court.  Let us just say that the heat was on so much during this game that those elementary memories were pushed way aside.  By halftime the game was tied.  I was discouraged because like many games that year I had not scored very many by that point in the game.  By the end of the game we had won the battle.  My coach, our fans and my teammates were so thrilled.  For most of us it was like winning a national championship.  For me, however, it was a failure.  Once again, in spite of the team win, I was discouraged with what I viewed as a minimal contribution.  The fans started to come to the floor congratulating all of us, I hid my true emotions, that is until I saw my dad.  Our eyes met and I lost it, crying like a baby as a senior athlete in high school.  My dad just held me and hid me in his 6'8'', 240 lb frame.  I am not sure he understood then but I was so grateful he was there to support me that day and I will never forget that moment I was able to hide in his embrace and feel of his unconditional love.


Dad, this Father's Day, I want you to know that I love you.  I am grateful for who you are and  the life you live.  I am grateful for those great memories of driving across the west, sleeping at my sister's or the Royal Inn and watching so many events with you.  I love you dad.  I hope your day goes well.  The Borks

West Side Drive-In

I had the privilege of taking my father out to lunch.  My wife, our two older children and grandma went to see Wicked, a broadway musical that had come to town.  That left me, dad, the two younger boys and my pager.  "Little C", my five year old, and I decided to take grandpa out to lunch.  This was such a simple but thrilling event for me.  For years my father would take us out to eat at the various unique restaurants and holes in the wall around southern California.  He knew them all.  After temple trips it was the Jewish restaurant in Santa Monica or Tommy's.  After General Priesthood meetings it was In-N-Out or Tommy's.  On our way to LA, the hidden Japanese Tempura restaurant or Tommy's.  Toward Riverside, a lunch place with fresh banana cream pie or...you get the picture.  Hot Pastrami, Hot Tamales, Chile Cheese Fries, Taquitos.  El Patio, El Pollo (Loco), El Guapo and more.  Then there were the dessert joints.  Swenson's ice cream, Thrifty ice cream, 31 and the ever sacred, Hagen Daz.  My father had a particular way of eating his ice cream.  There were always two musts.  It must be hard, it must include extra sauce.  I can just picture him even today, asking the clerk if there ice cream is hard.  I can't imagine how many times, one of those servers, wanted to probably say, "Why don't you come back and check it yourself?"  Either way, hard or soft my dad would still consume every bite to the last drop.

Now consumption was an entirely different story.  My father could enjoy any one of the above delicious meals while driving a car.  Soft drink with straw, no challenge.  Milk shake with spoon, piece of cake.  Chile cheese fries, not one stain.  Hot tamales with chile and cheese in a rectangular paper bowl, fork and all.  Now this I have to explain in more detail.  The Tamale inside it's paper receptacle, would sit on top of the dash, the soft drink between the legs.  Then in the right moment, which I did not know of a wrong moment, my father would lean forward, cut the tamale then shovel it into his mouth while steering with his legs.  It was awesome.  I would sometimes stare and be in awe.  One day I would be able to achieve such a task.  All this and next to the tamale in the company car was a sign, "30 years of safe driving" awarded to my dad.  I was proud, he drove safely and could enjoy a four course meal while doing it.

Now you might understand why taking my father to one of our local burger joints was such a thrill.  We walked up to the dirty floor at the window where you order.  You could just see years of fallen fries and broken ketchup packages fossilized into the ground.  The grease smell was disgusting in yet enticing simultaneously.  There were 100's of dead flies within the groove of the order window.  Who cares, the food was great.  There was a picture of one of the dudes from cable T.V. that goes around trying authentic foods but we all know will one day soon kick the bucket from atherosclerotic plaque.  But, his picture validated our choice that day.  The food was ordered and eaten.  The shakes were chosen and downed.  We were done within minutes.  My father surprisingly could not eat his entire hamburger like he used to eat.  He ate each bite hunched over like an old man.  It is not fun to see this great man get old but I guess it is inevitable.

We finally, finished and headed back.  Little C loved the food and desires to return.  He was so excited to go to lunch with my father.  Oh, if he only knew what it meant for me.  Love you Dad, thanks for the great memories.  The Borks