On August 20, 2023 for the eighth consecutive year, I will be running the 7 miles from Wood's Hole to Falmouth Heights in 80-90 degree weather and 80-90 percent humidity. I know, I know. If you haven't done it, it might sound stupid. And the hassle to get to the start line vastly exceeds the hassle to get to the start line of any other race, maybe in the world, but it's worth it. There is a lottery for bibs, and the opportunity to benefit a non-profit, and I choose the latter every year.

Last year and this year, I choose to run for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. A really, really, really, really, successful non-profit that has actually saved the lives of thousands of people through new medicines and treatments. It is so worthwhile to raise money for an organization that puts that money to such good use.

I'm sure there will be a Weblog or two associated with the event, but for now, if you'd like to make a difference, you can visit my fundraising page here.

It has been 35 years since I could speak to my late father, Edward Ambrose Doherty and he could speak back. 

I’m sure there are lots of readers who have lost their father that have the same wish as me:  It would be great if I could speak with him just one time for 5 minutes. What an incredible experience that would be!

My eyes are watering just thinking about it, and those in a similar situation probably would agree with me.

For those of you who can still engage in a conversation with your father, you are lucky, remember that he won’t be available forever, and you should take advantage of the opportunity before it is too late.

Think about it this way: if you knew your father had only one year to live, would you act any differently towards him? Would you treat him differently? Would you value your time together more? Would you speak more frequently? Would you tell him you love him more often?

This weblog is about my father, who received the kind of death sentence mentioned above. I spent a lot of time thinking about him on Father’s Day, as everyone who has lost a dad does. What follows are some of the memories that randomly popped into my head on Sunday.

Eddie Doherty passed away at the age of 59 in 1988. A young age for sure. He had been disabled since he was forty years old with a bad heart, and I mean a heart so bad he was uninsurable and unemployable. His cardiologist gave him less than five years to live, and he had to live with that hanging over his head. The kids did too.

The things I thought about on Father's Day may not be the things he hoped I remembered, but they popped into my mind. Here are those thoughts.

Ridge Arena: When the Bruins and Bobby Orr captured the Boston market’s hearts in the 60's and 70's new arenas sprang up around the state. In my hometown of Braintree, a new 7,000 seat ice hockey venue, Ridge Arena, opened up and my Dad drove us to the other side of town to see it. I stood there as a 13- or 14-year-old spellbound standing next to the glass behind the goalie. 

It was so bright, so colorful, so exciting, that I knew I wanted to be on the other side of that glass someday. That was the day the dream to play high school hockey was born. (Side note: when the arena was being razed forty years later for an apartment complex, my mom stopped by the construction site and snagged a brick for herself as a souvenir of the hours she spent freezing her butt off during games and practices that my younger brother Paul and I had at that location. I have the brick.)

Eaton’s Pond: Did I mention we were a hockey family? Growing up we lived about 200 yards from Eaton’s Pond and when the winter came, that pond froze over and was the site of many a pick-up hockey game.

My dad played on the US Army All-Star Hockey Team when stationed in Germany in the early 50’s and skated well into his 30’s recreationally and everyone in the area knew he could skate. 

The memory? Whenever we were both eligible to be selected in a pick-up hockey game at Eaton’s Pond, even when I was also playing in that Ridge Arena rink on the high school team, he was always picked before me. Always. Very humbling.

Beer at Bruins Games: Dad and his brothers shared some Bruins season tickets during the team’s glory years and before. I did not get to go very often, after all, the brothers were hockey big fans and the tickets were expensive at $3 each. 

Anyway, when I did get to go, I waited until the PA Announcer stated ‘One minute to go in the period. One minute.’ My job was to then go downstairs under section 41 in the old Boston Garden, stand at a beer rail, a nine-inch shelf against the wall, and spread my arms out to ‘save’ the space for my dad and uncles. That way they could watch the end of the period, get their beers and have a place to stand and set there drinks down. 

My assignment changed radically when I turned 21, legal drinking age: I still went downstairs with one minute to go in the period, but I was also tasked with buying the beers, and stood at the beer rail with my arms spread out to save the space until the they got there.

Zamboni Advertising: This may not be historically accurate per Wikipedia, I don't know. What I do know is that when I first attended Bruins games, the Zamboni looked like this.

My dad, working for State Street Bank at the time, had a eureka moment and told me that an ad on the Zamboni, moving around the rink 20-30 times between periods would be a great way to promote a business. He reached out the bank's marketing department and the next time I was at a game, the State Street Bank was featured on the sides of the Zamboni. First Zamboni ad ever? We'll never know for sure, but I believe it is. In fact, every time I attend any kind of hockey game, I think of my father when the Zamboni rolls out.

John P. McKeon Post 146: On the day he was supposed to pass away, his buddies at the John P. McKeon Post 146 in Dorchester, Massachusetts, threw him a party/funeral. Irish humor? Veteran humor? Sick humor? All three? He outlasted the death sentence by several years, which we always considered a testament to his toughness.

I spent some time at the Post with my dad over the years. He was very active, serving as the Treasurer and on the Board. I was there for a quick beer after work in the Members Lounge. I was there as a volunteer for Thanksgiving Dinners the Post provided for local senior citizens. I was there for mega Superbowl Parties where each of the score-by-period squares were worth thousands. I was there for my son’s party after his baptism. Dad loved that place, and they loved him.

Christmas Eve: My folks separated when I was a teenager and lived apart. Christmas Eve was for Dad, and Christmas Day was for Mom. We continued that tradition for many years, and for several, I would pick him up at his apartment, drive him to the family homestead in Braintree, celebrate and exchange presents, and then bring him home. 

The only time I ever saw him cry was sitting in the car after a Christmas Eve visit was over. I was heartbroken too.

Take Care of Your Men: While Dad gave me advice through the years, my age determined how well I listened. 

• When I was a pre-teen, he was the smartest person I ever met. 
• Somehow when I was teenager, he became an idiot.
• Once I hit my twenties, he got smart again. 

The advice I remember the most, coming from the youngest First Lieutenant in the history of the modern Army was: “Take care of your men and your men will take care of you.” More or less fits my management style.

Father-In-Law: Many readers know my beautiful wife and this memory may contradict what your current impression of her might be. That is not my intention. Let me start by saying my Dad could be a jerk from time to time. That’s probably true of most fathers. 

Each year the McKeon Post had a Father’s Day picnic in a place called Long Island, that had been an armed defensive location protecting the city during the Civil War, in the middle of Boston Harbor. There used to be a land bridge to get there, now it is accessible only by boat. 

One year my new wife volunteered to prepare the food for the picnic. She and my father didn’t always get along, and I think she was hoping to make the relationship better. She must have asked my father at least a half-dozen times what he wanted to have to eat, and he was dismissive, saying things like ‘doesn’t matter’ ‘whatever you think’ ‘something easy and simple’ and so forth. She tried so hard to please him, but to no avail.

She put together some sandwiches, chips, pickles, etc. On the big day we pulled into our parking space on the parade grounds of the old fort with hundreds of other cars. My wife pulled out the spread she had prepared and my father started bitching about it and comparing it with other families who were grilling out and had much fancier tailgate operations. 

He finally crossed the line and said something snarky to my wife. She looked him right in the eye and said: ‘Go f--- yourself.’ That was the moment he fell in love with her. He started laughing and hugged her and they got along great the rest of his life. She had earned his respect in a most unusual way.

Let It Be His Secret: On Thanksgiving Day in 1988 I was speaking with my dad on the phone and he coughed and stopped talking and wouldn’t respond to me. I immediately called my brother Paul who lived close by my father and he sped over there. An ambulance brought him to Deaconess Hospital in the Longwood area of Boston, but he never regained consciousness. 

Paul and I were at the hospital and ran to his room when paged that the end was near. He passed away with us standing over his bed. A physician asked to speak with us in the hall. He asked us if they could do an autopsy on my father because they had no idea how he lived as long as he did with a heart as bad as his. My brother and I mulled it over and then announced: “No, let it be his secret.”

Ugly Sweater: My Dad wasn’t the most fashion-conscious guy, and he had a favorite sweater that I probably wouldn’t wear. After he passed, my sister Susan had the sweater made into small pillows as a remembrance. I keep mine in the car next to the driver’s seat as an extra precaution to keep us safe.

Father’s Day 2023: This Father’s Day I drove 90 minutes, early in the morning, to the John P. McKeon Post 146 in Dorchester to run in their Father’s Day 5k again. Not sure how many years I have run it with my brother Paul in Dad’s memory. We used to see guys he hung with, but since he’d be 94 if he was still alive, there aren’t too many left. We run anyway. 

For that 90-minute drive, I thought pretty much non-stop about my Dad, including some of the memories above. It was hard not to think about anything but him during the race along the Neponset River in Dorchester and Quincy.

After the 5K, I drove to the cemetery in Braintree just to speak with him, even if he didn’t speak back.

My Dad had a short life compared to many. He wasn’t perfect by a long shot. 

Since I always felt that I was a reflection of both my parents, I hope that what you think of me also applies to what you think of him, because I wouldn’t be who I turned out to be without him. 

I wish I could talk with him, and if you can talk to your dad, do it, because once he’s gone, all you will have left are the photos and the memories.