Learning to live

Father's Day isn't just about the ones who are still here

The three of us -- Graham Thompson, my brother Kenny and me -- grew up together, friends for life, we swore. Our world was Woodcrest Drive, bookended by two fields that served, depending on the season, as Yankee Stadium or Lambeau Field. The curve that joined the two sides of our neighborhood would later be Turns 3 and 4 of Talladega Superspeedway, where we ran Richard Petty-like, charging between our houses before school or dates or a night of cruising from the Sonic north of Aberdeen to the railroad tracks on the south side of town.

And all the while there were two constants: Amo and Billy. Our dads worked from can 'til can't. Both drank. Both smoked. Both raised us boys to work and play hard. We concentrated on the latter and, once on our own, begrudgingly accepted the former. Those were heady days, growing up in the early '80s, when Harry Caray serenaded us during Chicago day games with "Jo-dee, Jo-dee Davis" on WGN telecasts, while Skip Caray counted down the innings until it was last call later that night in faraway Atlanta.

I was the first to leave home, jetting for greener pastures in 1985. At 36, I've been away from home as long as I was there. Graham was next to leave, in 1987; he now lives 40 miles from where we grew up. Kenny, however, remains at home, a mama's boy who still mows our parents' yard -- albeit with a riding mower that was "too expensive" when Mom and Dad had two able-bodied kids still living under their roof.

We were all together again in February, a reunion that was unexpected. Graham still looked like the best second baseman I've ever played ball with. He married his high school sweetheart a few years ago and now has two beautiful girls, ones who will be as easy on the eyes as his wife. Kenny always could roll out of bed and hit a baseball, something he probably could still do; it came easy for him, but it just wasn't what he wanted to do. Me, I've grown comfortable as the father of three, content to pass along the virtues of Amo and Billy.

Under gray skies and a biting breeze, Kenny and I walked into Tisdale-Lann Memorial with our parents. It was nondescript, just like the one my grandparents had been in -- cold, unwelcoming and ... final. Try as they may, funeral homes are not comforting; the furniture is stuffy, uncomfortable, uninviting. The decorative flowers are subdued, yielding to the somber air that is almost stifling. But as we made our way through the people who had gathered to pay their final respects, I caught the eye of Miss Sharon. Once we were within arm's reach, she fell against me and I could feel the weight of her emotions: Her best friend and husband, Graham's dad and my second dad, was dead.

There would be no more trips to Scott Field, where we saw Herschel Walker run the Bulldogs ragged, or Dudy Noble Field, where we scoffed at getting the autographs of then-wannabes Will Clark and Rafael Palmeiro. Gone were the days of eating homemade pimento-and-cheese sandwiches and cold fried chicken en route to Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. Memories now carried us to Busch, Royals and Riverfront stadiums.

This is our first Father's Day without Amo. It's going to be tough for Graham and Miss Sharon; even with the girls' well-wishes for their daddy, it's a hollow day. I still think about Amo doing the little things, like how he casually transferred a dollar into the hand of the usher who'd cleaned our stadium seats. He taught us so much more than respect. He taught us how to be better men.

My heart goes out to the Thompsons even more today. I can still call my dad and ask for advice or see how things are or just to hear his voice. I don't do it as much as I should, and I know that I take it for granted.

Maybe Amo is trying to teach me something else.

B. Duane Cross is a senior producer for SI.com.

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