The Coolest Dad

Ben and I at Legends Field in Tampa for a Yankee spring training game a few years back.

Ben Appio

My dad taught me a love of baseball. He was a Mets fan since their inception in 1962. He went to games at The Polo Grounds, at Shea, at Citi Field. He was there when Jimmy Piersall ran the bases backwards following his 100th home run. As a teen, my dad rode the subway with one of the Amazin's after a game -- Frank Thomas? Rod Kanehl? I can never remember -- while his Dodger fan friend peppered the guy with questions about who was the toughest pitcher in the National League. "Drysdale? Koufax?"

The first major league game I ever attended was at Shea Stadium. Mets vs Cubs. I think Lee Mazzilli hit a home run. Over the years, we would attend Opening Days at Shea -- including Tom Seaver's 1983 return to the team. My brother and I would get to walk on the field with our homemade placard for Banner Days. We saw Rusty Staub break the MLB record for consecutive pinch hits.

Despite his best efforts, the great failing of my father's life was that I turned out to be a Yankee fan. To his credit, though, I was never one of those dick Yankee fans who harbored a blind hatred for the Mets. I rooted for both teams. I was on the verge of tears in my uncle's basement when it looked like -- of all teams -- the Boston Red Sox were going to beat the Mets in the 1986 World Series. When Bill Buckner booted Mookie Wilson's ground ball, I jumped around that basement like a crazy person. I'm sure my dad was doing the same thing at whatever bar he was at with my uncle, my aunt, and my mom. The closest we ever came to blows, though, was when Roger Clemens threw that piece of bat at Mike Piazza during Game 2 of the 2000 World Series. "How can you root for this team???" he and my brother were screaming at me with murder in their eyes.

In an area more relevant to this site, my dad taught me a love of music. He introduced me to The Beatles and The Beach Boys. He would play the soundtrack to Jesus Christ Superstar in our Brooklyn apartment. He showed me that wild spaceship take-off effect on The Jimi Hendrix Experience's Axis: Bold as Love; and, as a three- or five-year-old or whatever I was kid, that was just about the coolest thing I'd ever heard. On December 8th, 1980, my father stayed in bed all day after finding out that John Lennon had been murdered.

I introduced him to a bunch of stuff, too. He would call me at home to tell me that he'd just spent hours going down the YouTube rabbit holes of Marissa Paternoster or Sabrina Ellis live performances. He loved Lowlight and Dentist and The RockNRoll Hi-Fives and The Battery Electric and so on and so on. My dad was always willing to try new things, and it made me feel good that he trusted my opinion.

My dad taught me how to be a father and husband. I marvel every day at how devoted he was to those he loved. I don't know if it's possible for me -- or anyone -- to be as absolutely selfless as my dad was when it came to family. And that's what gave him pleasure. It's not like he was some sort of martyr or as if he expected anything for his trouble. It filled him with genuine joy to do whatever it took to make those he loved happy. My dad had a saying that he used to repeat often: "You're only ever as happy as your unhappiest child." As we had our own kids, that expanded to include his grandchildren.

God, he loved my mom. As a couple, they are the epitome of how it's supposed to be. "Who's ever heard of Julie without Ben?" My mother keeps asking. We were bringing my dad home from the hospital one night. It was a chore to get him into the coolvan, and he was barely coherent. Once we got him settled, I drove my mom across the parking lot to her car. She got out; and, as I started to pull away, my dad said through his haze of illness, "Jimmy. Wait. Make sure she gets in the car." I hope every day that CoolMom feels the same love, respect, and support that my mom has felt for the last 50 years.

My father received his diagnosis of stage IV colon cancer on September 13, 2018. That was 366 days after we buried my brother. Without a doubt, the last 12 months of my father's life were the worst he ever experienced. But he saw a lot of beautiful things over the course of that year as well. He was at the swim meet where CoolDaughter #1 and her medley relay team broke the school record. He was with us as CoolDaughter #2 played the cello and sang in her school's holiday and spring concerts. He saw CoolNiece graduate from 8th grade and move on to high school. CoolNephew #1 got to tell him that he'd been made a captain of his college lacrosse team. CoolNephew #2 was elected prom king and senior class president. He watched me traipse through Japan on Facebook Live with The RockNRoll Hi-Fives, and he got to read my first-ever "officially" published article. And none of that even mentions the tiny moments that he got to spend with his grandchildren and the rest of his family.

This past Sunday, as he lay in his hospital bed moving between sleep and wakefulness, CoolMom brought the kids to see him. He opened his eyes for a moment, saw them, and said, "Beautiful."

Ben Appio passed away quietly on Tuesday, November 13th, 2018. His wife was with him. He was a great, great man. I can only hope that the rest of my life honors him.