One reason I’m sharing my memoir is because I have realized as a health coach, often, when we are struggling, like when trying to be healthier, our childhood may be holding us back. Until we address our past, our present and future may be affected.

Another reason is, when I shared it with friends, many said, “I feel the same. Can we talk?”

And, the most important reason; Right now, somewhere, an adult is harming a child. They may not know they’re doing it.

If what you read affects you, please reach out to me via email or phone, or leave a comment. My hope is to connect authentically with you, so we can support each other.

Caution, Dear Reader - Some of the content is graphic, and I have been told, disturbing at times. My goal is not to upset, but to share honestly. Only reflection and honesty have helped me glimpse what has eluded me for 50 years-happiness. Please read at your discretion. 

*Most names have been changed.

Click here to read my memoir from the beginning.

Click here to read installment 7.

Note:

Because he was my father, I believed him when he told me I wasn’t a good athlete. 33 years later, it will take the help of a therapist, coaches, universities, newspaper articles, family, friends, and this writing, for me to reluctantly admit, I was good, maybe. I know now, the words I speak to my children have the potential to impact their lives in ways that can destroy, or cultivate their self perception, and therefore, their self worth.

Installment 8

Luckily, while growing up, my brother, sister and I have something to make us feel special that my father doesn’t ask about. Reporters write in the papers, “The Kofitsas children are all athletic.” We can run fast for tall kids, shoot a basketball well, and hit a ball far. Bella asks, “How is it all three of you are so athletic. I don’t think it’s from Yaya. Was your dad athletic? Did he ever kick a ball with you?” I tell her, “I remember him playing with us twice. Once, kicking a soccer ball around, awkwardly. Another time he raced us on the street, fell, and cut his hands and knees. I don’t recall him being athletic during those two times.”

My father’s athletic education for us comes in two sentences; “Football and baseball are stupid sports, and blacks play basketball. In Greece we play a real sport, soccer.” To reinforce his lessons, he’ll tell me, “You’re not a good baseball player.” He’ll tell me the same about football.

Because he’s mostly not around, my brother, sister, and I play what most American kids at the time play; football, basketball, and baseball/softball, along with kickball and stickball. My sister is one of the only girls in our neighborhood her age, so she plays with us boys, even two hand touch football. She gets so good, eventually my friends say, “Pete, don’t bring your sister around anymore.” In high school, colleges offer her scholarships for both basketball and volleyball. She chooses basketball and goes on to play professionally in Greece, then in the US. When she comes back after her first year playing college basketball, she beats my best friend Jamie 21 to 0. The year before he says he beat her 10 to 1. My brother hurt his back so he doesn’t get to play in college. But to this day, at 53, he dives for volleyballs in my sisters backyard during family games with my kids like he’s still 18. It impresses me.

When I’m a senior in high school, my friends say, “Pete, come out for the football team. You’ll regret it if you don’t.” But I’m nervous, for one reason. As a freshman, during the 4th game of the season, I dove for a pass near the sidelines and when I tried to get up, collapsed back down to the grass. I looked to where my right wrist should have been and see my hand hanging limply, like it was attached with skin only. At the hospital my father storms in and yells, “I’m glad you broke your bones,” thinks about it, and adds, “I’ll kill you if you play football again,” then walks out. I believe him. When the staff mutter, “Who the hell was that guy?” I pretend not to hear them. Two years later, my best friend Jamie says, “Pete, your dad’s dead. If you don’t play, you’ll regret it. Convincing my nervous mother won’t be as hard as I think, “Ma, don’t worry. I’ll be careful, and we’re covered in pads and don’t hit each other that hard anyway.” At the time, she still has little idea what football is, so it works.

I play my senior year, and somehow, get a scholarship. I’m as surprised as everyone else. A reporter will catch me off guard and ask me why I didn’t play for two years. I can’t tell him the truth, so I do what I always do when someone asks me about my father, I lie, “My parents were really set against football, so I decided not to play.” My coach is also quoted in the papers, “It’s unbelievable for a guy who did not play his sophomore and junior years.” “He’s a scholarship football player, and can play anywhere in the country,’ his coach, Dennis Heck, says.”

I’ll think a mistake has been made, (My therapist shakes his head when I tell him this) and eventually, even though I earn a starting spot in college, convince myself to quit. 33 Years later, I begin to understand why I walked away from a four year scholarship even though my mother couldn’t afford to pay for college. Then I go further back, and discover why at 16, a couple months after my father dies, I quit what I love most, baseball. People tell me not to have regrets in life, it’s not healthy. But I can’t, or maybe don’t want to help it; I regret missing my athletic career. Unfortunately, for me that regret often leads to resentment, an emotion psychologist tell us can lead to unhappiness, continual irritability, and psychological compromise, including excessive anxiety and depression. I’m hoping through grief work, I’ll let it go someday. Thankfully, that’s starting to happen.

In the fall in 1985, two years before I’m a senior in high school, my brother, sister, and I, go to my father’s house less and less on Sundays. I’m relieved. I feel like a stranger in his home. I look for excuses not to go. That winter, he makes a strange request; he asks my brother and me to alternate sleeping over his house. Brigitta, his wife, is re-enforcing a restraining order she had filed, then disregarded. He tells us, “I need you to sleep over in case the police come.” Today, I realize him telling me about the police doesn’t surprise me; he’s been involved with police my whole life. What worries me is the prospect of sleeping over his house. I’ve never slept over before. In fact, I have never been alone with my father for more than several hours. I made sure of it. 

It’s the last January of my father’s life, a few weeks after he forgets my 16th birthday. I’m used to it. My mother forgets too. When she remembers, she reminds him. One year he gives me an 8-track of Elvis Presley’s greatest hits. He hands it to me without wrapping while we’re sitting in his van. It’s scratched and has a torn sleeve. I remember seeing it at his house. His wife Brigitta, a huge Elvis fan, must have thought, “I wonder what happened to my Elvis tape.” I cherish it anyway. It’s one of two gifts I recall him giving me. The other is a stainless steel pen and pencil set in a faux leather hinged case. That too is slightly used, scratched, but no less cherished. I’ve saved both gifts. They lie in a lower desk drawer. Every once in a while, I open the drawer, see them, and deflate.

Then, on January 29th, 1986, two days after my first and last sleepover with my father, he does something to end his pain and suffering, but not ours.

More to come…

Read installment 7

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