I was yelling. I was crying. I was sitting at the kitchen table inside my home in Bolingbrook, Illinois on a warm Sunday evening in August 1986, the summer after my freshman year away at college. My mom was listening to me. She was silent. She had never seen me so angry. I had never been so angry. I was 18, and I had just fought with my father for the first time in my life.
I spent that Sunday at a pro golf tournament with some friends. Afterward, we went to one guy’s house to eat pizza and watch the Bears pre-season game on videotape. Perfect.
Then my mom called the guy’s house. Your father and I want you to come home. You haven’t been to Mass yet. You need to go, and you promised your brother you would take him with you.
I burned with humiliation. She was right. I hadn’t been to Mass. But I was responsible. I never missed Mass once at Northwestern. No one told me to go and no one checked my dorm room. No one needed to. Couldn’t my parents see? Couldn't they let it slide? No.
And Danny? Someone else could drive my brother to church, couldn’t they? I helped my parents and siblings that summer, juggling rides and running errands. Couldn’t someone help me? No.
A friend drove me home. We didn’t talk much. He’s Catholic, too.
I stormed into the backyard, yelling. My dad was standing in front of the garage. He stayed stern: Get to Mass, and keep your promise to your brother.
My anger took him by surprise. We didn’t fight like some fathers and sons do. I wasn’t a rebel and he wasn’t a tyrant. We always got along. I struck out a lot in Little League and I usually cried while walking back to the dugout --- even during my last year, when I was a bit too old for such displays. I remember one game, early evening in the summer, at the field off Rockhurst Drive not far from our house. My dad consoled me behind the backstop. I buried my head in his chest, ashamed at my failure, ashamed at showing the shame. I remember his strong arms around me and the discordant sounds of the game carrying on behind us.
My dad didn’t console me that Sunday night. I didn’t back down and give him the chance. I raged inside the kitchen and wailed at my mother: I’m never going to live here again. I won’t live with people who don’t trust and appreciate me.
Then Danny and I got in the car. I cried and yelled for the whole drive to church. It just poured out. We were alone, and Danny is my kid brother, but I think he was embarrassed for me.
I was wrong that night. I knew it at the time. But I was self-righteous and stupid, and I seethed at the people who dared point out my mistake. The result was my pathetic display of contradiction: Behold the crybaby, all indignant that his parents wouldn’t treat him like an adult.
But I was right about one thing that night: I never lived in that house again. One month later I was back at Northwestern for sophomore year. During summers I worked newspaper internships in other states. After graduation I drove south for a job and never came back. I am 45 now and I haven't returned home for more than a week at a time. My dad and I never fought before or after that evening, and we’ve never talked about that fight, either.
I came back to Bolingbrook that summer after being away for nine months. But I didn’t know how to live there. I had been on my own and changed more than I, or my parents, realized. I wish I had recognized this at the time and moved on gracefully. Instead I waited until the season was over, and then I just stopped trying.
I spent that Sunday at a pro golf tournament with some friends. Afterward, we went to one guy’s house to eat pizza and watch the Bears pre-season game on videotape. Perfect.
Then my mom called the guy’s house. Your father and I want you to come home. You haven’t been to Mass yet. You need to go, and you promised your brother you would take him with you.
I burned with humiliation. She was right. I hadn’t been to Mass. But I was responsible. I never missed Mass once at Northwestern. No one told me to go and no one checked my dorm room. No one needed to. Couldn’t my parents see? Couldn't they let it slide? No.
And Danny? Someone else could drive my brother to church, couldn’t they? I helped my parents and siblings that summer, juggling rides and running errands. Couldn’t someone help me? No.
A friend drove me home. We didn’t talk much. He’s Catholic, too.
I stormed into the backyard, yelling. My dad was standing in front of the garage. He stayed stern: Get to Mass, and keep your promise to your brother.
My anger took him by surprise. We didn’t fight like some fathers and sons do. I wasn’t a rebel and he wasn’t a tyrant. We always got along. I struck out a lot in Little League and I usually cried while walking back to the dugout --- even during my last year, when I was a bit too old for such displays. I remember one game, early evening in the summer, at the field off Rockhurst Drive not far from our house. My dad consoled me behind the backstop. I buried my head in his chest, ashamed at my failure, ashamed at showing the shame. I remember his strong arms around me and the discordant sounds of the game carrying on behind us.
My dad didn’t console me that Sunday night. I didn’t back down and give him the chance. I raged inside the kitchen and wailed at my mother: I’m never going to live here again. I won’t live with people who don’t trust and appreciate me.
Then Danny and I got in the car. I cried and yelled for the whole drive to church. It just poured out. We were alone, and Danny is my kid brother, but I think he was embarrassed for me.
I was wrong that night. I knew it at the time. But I was self-righteous and stupid, and I seethed at the people who dared point out my mistake. The result was my pathetic display of contradiction: Behold the crybaby, all indignant that his parents wouldn’t treat him like an adult.
But I was right about one thing that night: I never lived in that house again. One month later I was back at Northwestern for sophomore year. During summers I worked newspaper internships in other states. After graduation I drove south for a job and never came back. I am 45 now and I haven't returned home for more than a week at a time. My dad and I never fought before or after that evening, and we’ve never talked about that fight, either.
I came back to Bolingbrook that summer after being away for nine months. But I didn’t know how to live there. I had been on my own and changed more than I, or my parents, realized. I wish I had recognized this at the time and moved on gracefully. Instead I waited until the season was over, and then I just stopped trying.
