The best part of me.
If you knew my Dad, you knew the guy with the green muscle car. You knew the guy who called himself a giant teddy bear. You knew the guy who would squeeze the top of your head if you were doing something you shouldn’t have been doing.
To know him was to love him. To be around him was to feel protected, even if it was just from a little rain. He seemed like such a mean guy with one look, but he was so much more than just that face. He always reminded me that if I ever needed someone’s ass kicked, he’d do it even if he called himself an old man. I knew he’d do it regardless. I never once doubted that I wouldn’t be taken care of by him.
For as long as I can remember, music was something we always had. I remember he had this giant black folder of CDs in his ford ranger. He would let me flip through them and look for something to put in. I always chose by the art on the CD. I would point out bands like Megadeath or Pantera and we would listen to them. I couldn’t have been any older than five or six at the time. We were living in an apartment, and it wasn’t always the best, but that’s what we had, and I held onto that. Adrian and I were sharing a bedroom and I would turn onto I-105 to listen on my little purple radio, but each time I heard My Little Girl come on, I would wake up and rush to turn it down because it always made me tear up. The thought of leaving my dad or anything happening to US would ruin me. I didn’t want that. Couldn’t have that.
One thing I always tell people about my Dad is how I got into softball. I’ve tried a few sports, I wanted to hear my parents cheering for me on the sides, so I tried basketball for a little bit. I remember Papi telling me that I sucked and I should try giving softball a go (LOL), so I did. I was good at it. I remember the excitement in his voice when he found out I had scouts looking at my pitching. He beamed with so much joy and I held onto that because he was proud of me.
When I was 13, I began the terrible teenage phase, but he handled it like a pro. Probably because he was always a few steps ahead of me, but he never let that stop me from going through my own mistakes of things. My dad was what we will call the “Community Dad.” Every single one of my friends that came around called him “Dad.” I don’t know what the word for this would be, but I was so excited and proud and lucky to know that I got to share that love with them. He took all of them in with open arms. Our house became the house that they all came to when they needed a place to stay, an ear to rant to, or someone to just give them shit for the things that were going on. The love he gave them was something that we will always remember. He was the kind of parent that you would want to grow up to be. He told everyone that Alyssa was his and he never had to explain it. When Haley needed a home, he welcomed her with nothing more than straight love and an open door, always. He didn’t judge her or belittle her when she got pregnant. He took in so many of the people in my life and loved them as his own. He took each of them in, like he already knew their stories and why they needed someone. He was their someone.
We were too much alike and butted heads. I was half of him, the stubborn first daughter that’s too much like her Daddy. Hard-headed, doesn’t back down, keeps going until I find a way to get it done. We have the Millisock last name for a reason.
These words don’t even scratch the surface of the man he was. If I continue, I’ll end up writing a book about him. Just how the sound of his voice or laugh could cure the slightest bit of sadness or worry you had. How his ocean blue eyes were enough to keep you there with him. How he’d give a little squeeze before he pulled away from a hug.
“Okay, love you baby. Talk to you later.”
He will forever be the best part of me.
