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Hope For A Courageous Ninth Inning
A Story About My Dad, His Terminal Cancer, Miracles, and God
With a sand wedge in my hand, I walked across the tenth hole of only my second round of golf this year. I didn’t take the shot; however, I did take a telephone call from my sister. The abnormal call prompted me to blurt immediately, “what’s wrong?”
She let me know my father is going to die within the next several months, and that I should call him. So, I stopped my game and commenced an off-pace, grief-ridden stroll down the eleventh hole, with the sand-wedge in one hand and phone in the other. While my playing-partner teed-off, I said, “nice ball” and dialed a number that I hadn’t called in over nine months.
“Hello,” my father said. I responded, “Dad, it’s Penn, Mattie said you’ve been trying to reach me. However, I haven’t seen any missed calls, nor received a voicemail.” He was surprisingly open and said, “yes son, I have cancer, stage four pancreatic cancer, and it’s not good, I’ve been to MD Anderson and will do all I can — however, I hoped you’d just come home and see me before I go.”
I responded, “Dad, I can’t imagine what you’re going through, and I am so glad you told me.” I added, “well, like the words of that little cartoon Bob Costas mentioned in his eulogy of (New York Yankee great) Mickey…
