Happy Father's Day to one and all

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Today is Father's Day. For many, it's a chance to say thank you to (or simply remember) half of the combination that brought you into the world.

For some of us, however, it is a different sort of day.

Although my father was alive when I was young, he was, in essence, not in the picture. He was hospitalized when I was about 2. He had a variety of physical and mental health issues. He occasionally came home for brief visits at the holidays. But he never stayed long and always went back to the hospital just north of our home in Detroit when Mom felt it was time.

But that didn't mean I was without older male guidance. Indeed, on this Father's Day, I wish to salute all the older males (and one female) who stepped up to take on a father-figure role in my youth.

When I was 2, I went to live with my mom's sister, Ida and her husband in Dayton, Ohio. They had no kids of their own. Uncle Cletus worked at the Dayton Daily News as one of their chief proofreaders. He taught me to read by going over the paper every day. (I learned a different form of English from the daily "Pogo" comic strip.) He was also a big baseball fan and taught me how to keep score while watching games on TV and, later in attendance for games at Cincinnati's Crosley Field.

When it was time for grade school, I returned to Detroit. I attended a school where we lived in a dorm. Even among the nuns who ran the place, there was a father figure — Sister Sharon Ann. She was a baseball fan in part because Jack Kralick, who pitched for the Twins (and threw the only no-hitter in Met Stadium history), was her brother. She used long division to teach us how to compute batting and earned run averages. She even let me out of her third-grade class early to go to the playroom to watch the 1961 World Series because Cincinnati was playing the Yankees.

A couple of years later, I was introduced to man named Tom Boyle. He had worked for the Detroit News and was working for Ford as a PR man. Tom was in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program. On one of our first meetings he said to me, "I am not here to replace your father. Nobody can do that. I am here to be your friend, to listen and to help you along." We did the sort of things a boy would do with a father — go to baseball games, bowling and to movies. At times, we just sat and talked. Sixty years later, I can't remember what we talked about. It didn't matter. A boy sometimes just needs to talk.

In high school, it was a real Father who took on some of the dad duties. After one of year of mediocre high school work in Detroit, it was determined I should attend a school across the river in Windsor, Ontario. I lived in a dorm. Father Cullen, a man of many talents, ran the place. He also taught English and was the head coach for the hockey team. I wanted to play hockey badly. Unfortunately, badly was an apt description of my athletic skills. (My wife once asked Father Cullen what kind of hockey player I was. "He meant well," was his answer.)

Father Cullen quickly dispersed me of the idea of playing but signed me up to be the student manager. That first year, Assumption was going to start playing Saturday night games at Windsor Arena. As part of my duties, Father Cullen determined I would run the scoreboard and do the public address announcing. His instructions were simple: "You've been to games. Listen to what they say and do the same thing." For 1970, Father Cullen was ahead of his time. He would mount a camera at the end of the rink and tape games. He critiqued his team sternly. I was included in those critiques when I said more than I should over the mike. "You work with the officials now," he said. "That means you have to be professional when you speak." Five decades plus later, those words are embedded in my brain when I do public address work.

When it came time to look at colleges, Father Cullen suggested St. Thomas. Con McNamara, the dean of admissions at the school, was an old classmate of his. "It's a small but growing journalism school," he said. "You will learn how to be a journalist there." So, I packed up and moved a thousand miles away. Reno Bertoia, who was the Minnesota Twins' original third baseman, was my homeroom teacher. "Minnesota is a nice place," he said. "Give it some time and you'll like it there." Reno was right. Except for a couple of months in St. Petersburg, Fla., I have been here ever since.

I note the above because most of us who grew up without a dad around on a daily basis had an older person who stepped in and helped in an hour of need. Today is the day to thank those folks.

I was fortunate. I got to thank Uncle Cletus by winning a raffle and taking him to the second game of the 1970 World Series in Cincinnati. Tom Boyle started a family of his own and we gradually drifted apart. About 15 years ago, I decided to track him down just to thank him for all he did for me. I found him in Atlanta. We had a reunion there (on CNN, no less) and have stayed in touch since. Long after he retired, I made a trip to Windsor to see Father Cullen. I wanted my wife to meet the man who guided me through high school and taught me how to be professional at work and elsewhere. ("You never know who you are going to meet or where you will meet them," he once told me. "People have long memories.")

So, it doesn't matter if the person or persons you thank today are blood relatives or not. This is the day we remember the male folks who guided us when we most needed it.

It is never too late to say thanks.

Dave Wright is a retired sports information director from Hamline University who still does public address work for high school athletic events.