The Boog

My Dad was a light in my life. He was the best Dad this little boy – now man – could’ve had. Some people called him The Boog (long story for another time). The Boog was an amazing, generous, kind, ferocious, hard-working, impish, intelligent, patient, strong, stoic, no fucks given guy. He was so perfect in my brain, for a long time I didn’t want to become a father because I could never compare to The Boog. (But then he told me stories about how imperfect he was, which of course made him more perfect. What a tangled we we weave.) For a long time I believed I wouldn’t measure up, and I would be disappointing to him or me or my kids. He was a regular guy who was always himself. He was not shy. He never seemed scared. And he was ALWAYS himself. I know this is a platitude many people give to dead relatives and friends, but I assure you this is no platitude, because they were no Boog. The Boog could disrobe to his birthday suit in front of friends he’d had for 50 years for no reason at all and act EXACTLY the same with no shame in his game. The Boog was not impressed by money. The Boog was impressed by good stories, and he was a good story himself.

I need to stop there for a second. I’m not a very good writer. I went to a good college and was placed in remedial writing with all of the ESL kids. The ESL kids all got A’s, though. I barely passed. I’m not a good writer, but I am a good thinker. I’m amazing at understanding the human condition, and finding the humor in things, but I’m not a good writer. So, as I write, you’ll have to bear with me. Feel free to provide critical grammar feedback. I’d like to make this as entertaining for you as it is inside my brain. Okay, back to The Boog…

The Boog died less than two months ago, and I’ve found myself writing about him. A LOT. I write to ease my stress. I write to get the thoughts in my brain out “on paper”. The $48 I spent on this little venture is nothing compared to the stress relief I get out of it. I mean, I think the first person I’m going to send this page to is my therapist (Hey Doc!). Side note – I highly recommend my therapist. She has saved me. More than once. Let me know if you need her info. Although, after she reads this, she may not want to be associated with me, so let me check with her first. Okay, back to The Boog…

The Boog died less than two months ago on October 23, 2020 at approximately 3:30pm. No, he didn’t die of the fucking virus. Instead, he died of fucking cancer. Fuck cancer. Fuck the virus, too. (And while at it, Fuck the Red Sox, too.) I tend to curse. I also tend to go on tangents, which I hope won’t be too maddening…but as this is how my brain works, this is how it goes. Okay, back to The Boog…

The Boog died less than two months ago on October 23, 2020 at approximately 3:30pm. He died of lung cancer that metastasized to his brain. The Boog smoked Camel unfiltered for close to 50 years, so it wasn’t unexpected. We discovered The Boog had cancer when in January 2019 he came in the house from working in the garage dazed and bloody. He looked completely out of it. Oddly enough, despite smoking for so long he always had low blood pressure and was eating Chantix to stop smoking. Apparently eating Chantix when you have low blood pressure can make you pass out. So, originally, this is what we thought happened – the Chantix caused an extreme drop in blood pressure, which made him pass out in the driveway while he was working, and as he fell he sliced open his knee and bonked his head possibly giving him a concussion. Later we realized it was more likely he had a small seizure from the brain cancer, which caused him to fall, but the point is the same. This fall made him get an MRI. The MRI told us he had brain cancer and needed a biopsy. The biopsy told us it was a secondary cancer. A secondary cancer told us he wasn’t going to survive it.

The Boog fought it, though. He did an experimental chemo treatment four hours away that was the most dehumanizing thing I’ve ever seen. Even a no fucks given dude like my dad was affected by the unending river of side effects, but he endured it. It gave us a little more quantity of life beyond the 3-6 months original diagnosis (I’ll do the math for you, it was about 21 months), so I’m grateful he did the treatment. There was an option not to do the treatment, and he considered not doing it. I should tell you about the trip to The Masters in April 2019. He loved it. I’ll tell that story another time. Okay, back to The Boog…

The Boog was a middle school gym teacher and farmer in a small town in Upstate NY. (And if you don’t know where Upstate New York is, it’s everything north of NYC.) He was an unassuming guy who did some superhero shit. He was an immigrant son who worked 60 hour weeks (on a good week) to support a family. There weren’t enough coaches, so my dad would coach any sport my brother and I wanted to play. He simultaneously coached the boys Varsity and Junior Varsity soccer teams. Imagine this…he didn’t know anything about soccer, he couldn’t cut anyone, and he had to coach roughly 45 boys ranging in age from 13 to 18 every day 6 days a week for two months. He also coached baseball, boys varsity basketball, girls varsity basketball, track, football, and later on golf. During all this, he held down a job at the local boys detention center, managed a farm, and sold cord’s of wood in the winter. He was an extraordinary man. The Boog was the child of an Italian parents. His mother was illiterate, and his son attended an Ivy League school (and started a blog despite the fact that he can’t write). I don’t know…I’m definitely biased, but I think that’s pretty incredible. I know this story was was meant to be a story about the Goddamn website and why I picked the name, but it’s turning into a Goddamn novel. I’m a thinker, I go on tangents. Okay, back to The Boog…

The Boog’s greatest attribute was his love for his family, and his unending generosity toward us.

Me: Dad, my girlfriend broke up with me. Dad: I’ll be right there. (He was six hours away, and couldn’t afford to fly.)

Me: Dad, I want to go to an Ivy League school. Dad: No problem, I support you. (Which meant he’d have to take a 3rd and 4th job, as he and my mom lived below the poverty line.)

Me: Dad, I want to move back in (part time. with my kids. after my divorce. in my 40s.) Dad: Absolutely, do you want us to build an apartment over the garage?

You’ll hear lots of stories about The Boog in this blog, mostly because his pain in my heart is current (and doesn’t seem to be going anywhere). All of the stories about The Boog are wonderful. I’m sure there were people who didn’t like The Boog. I’ve never met any, but I’m sure there are some. Of all the great things you’ll hear about him, though, the absolute best thing about The Boog…was his ability to be a human puppy dog. No matter what kind of day I had, I was always greeted with a huge smile and a hug if it was possible. Even at his worst times, when the cancer had taken all his joy from his life, he would still look at me, or my girls, or my mom, or my brother, or my nephew, and smile that warm smile. The Boog loved his family. He would still kiss me on the head and hug me until he wasn’t able. He would still tell me he loved me until he lost his ability to speak. And when you walked in the room, he would always say the same thing…

“Hey Magoo, how do you do?!”

Well pop, this is how I do. I hope you’re proud. I’m doing the best I can.