Good Sports

by Budd Glassberg

Reprinted with permission from the Zionsville Times Sentinel on March 8, 2006

He is Taking it with Him

“My daughter Betsy was an early talker. She cursed the day she was born” – Sid Glassberg

Never before had I seen anything leave the earth just from the strength of human power as I had watching the football growing smaller and further away from me. At age ten, attempting to get under my father’s punt was a scary proposition. The ball seemed to reach the clouds before descending. Two years later he wowed me by hitting 300 foot fly balls to me while I practiced fielding the baseballs. Also, from the time I first started ice skating to adulthood, as I skated forward at my greatest speed, he could breeze by me skating BACKWARDS. These Herculean feats I can still vividly picture today with the same reverence I had as an impressionable young boy.

My father, Sidney Glassberg was born the only child of my grandparents the day before Independence Day, 1920 in Chicago. He has lived his entire life in the Chicago area except for his years in General Patton’s army during the Second World War. One of the original “latch key kids”, Dad came home from school as a youngster to an empty house while both his parents worked. He taught himself to cook. Dad finished high school in Chicago, went to war, came home, and married my mother in 1946. He and my mother raised one girl and four boys, putting us all through college and then they retired to a far north suburb of the city.

There is nothing my father enjoys more than to make people laugh. This he does with regularity with one-liners flowing from his mouth in the Jewish tradition of Henny Youngman and Milton Berle. Throughout high school, I had no appreciation of his constant joking, but by the time I went away to college, more and more of my friends found him both charming and hilarious. His specialty, one that he has passed on to his sons, is making puns. I once asked him if he ever thought of doing some writing and he told me, “Buddy, my prose is bad, but it could be verse.”

Mom and Dad came out to New Hampshire to visit me in 1974. They took my girlfriend, Denise and I out to dinner at a nice restaurant. Dad began telling Denise about his new grandson and asked her if she would like to see a picture of his pride and joy. Denise described what she saw next as “this very worn picture, that must have come out of his wallet a hundred times, of two plastic bottles; Pride detergent and Joy dishwashing liquid. Just behind this picture was an equally worn picture of his kids; two baby goats.” Dad tried to pay for the bill with his Arco credit card. The waitress said to him, “We can’t take that card here, it is only for gas.” He replied, “That’s what I got here.”

If you laugh, and sometimes you must no matter how hard you try not to, it only encourages Dad to continue. The jokes will come fast and furious. At my daughter’s high school graduation last summer, he kept the people around us, all strangers to him, in stitches the entire forty-five minutes while we waited for the ceremony to begin. That is another thing about my father; he always is on the lookout for new audiences who may not have heard his material. Dad is just about the friendliest guy you might ever meet walking up to complete strangers and having them howling with laughter in minutes.

Five years ago, my father was receiving radiation treatments for prostate cancer. Everyone in the radiation department knew and loved Sid. He was the one they were all talking about. He was the man who came to the treatments with one stick-on smiley face sticker stuck on each cheek.

He even worked his magic at the funeral parlor after my mother’s cremation. The mortician asked about her remains and if my father would want several small urns to split the ashes among his children. Dad said, “No, they always used to fight over who got the drumstick at Thanksgiving.” We left there with my father telling the director “you are the last person I’d do business with.” The man didn’t get the joke. Dad then told my sister and me what he wanted at his funeral. He told us to rent a Brinks truck and have it follow his hearse. He told us he wanted a sign on it that would read; He’s taking it with him.

I really have come to appreciate my father and his unique being. My love for him goes beyond an appreciation of his fathering skills and fatherly advice. It is his outlook on life and desire to bring joy to others by making them laugh that is so admirable. I want to be like my father.

I believe his humor has contributed to his longevity. Look at how many comedians reach their late eighties, nineties and beyond; George Burns, Groucho Marx, Bob Hope, Milton Berle and many more. Dad told me that he wanted to live a long time so he could pass on good genes to his children.

On May 6^th of this year, I am directing the fourth running of the Zionsville Anti-Mini Marathon and dedicating this event to Sid Glassberg. I am inviting Dad and his lovely wife of one year, Lee, to come down to Zionsville. I am hoping that they can attend and that he will be the entertainment for this event. With Dad at the Anti, we will probably draw better numbers than that other Mini.

Budd Glassberg is a resident of Zionsville who is active in the local running community. Visit www.runz.com for reprints of all his columns. You can reach him by email at budd@runz.com.