My father loved to watch me

play tennis. But he knew that he made me so nervous and that my mistakes made him cuss so loudly that he couldn't keep his cool. He found every hiding place in the mountains at Rochdale and in the trees at Cunningham and in the handball courts at Baisley to watch me, when I had a big match to play.
He would give me pointers when I got off the court about this or that point and I would say, How did you see that point, I didn't see you? He said, I have my ways.
If he saw me see him then he would move because he was sure that I would blame him for my loss or he would blame himself.
My favorite memory is when we walked the Motor Highway, He was way faster than me and always trying to provoke me to go past my walls. It was shady and alot of brush to the left and right. I would have stopped 10 or 20 times to rest and look at the wildlife, if I weren't with him. He just kept saying, come on, come on. I said Dad, I want to be just like you! He hated that. I loved it and now when I get tired of being just like him, I hear him saying, come on, come on. I know that God gave him to me so that I could hear that.