Thanking Dad and Donovan

This sweet Everton bottle coozie from the dollar store came with stickers! It will earn its first cap Friday in Hartford shortly before Landon Donovan earns his last.

Tim Howard grabbing that weak Algerian header was just an accessory in the killing of time at the end of a dismal World Cup, a miserable summer and, as a matter of fact, a pretty horrible four or five years for me. Then the best player in the history of American soccer flung the ball right, to the feet of the second best, and Landon Donovan didn't share my feeling that it was finally time to give up.

I was watching that final group stage game next to my father, in my room, in likely the worst physical and emotional pain I've ever experienced. A few months removed from a year of incarceration and a few days removed from my last oxy in a resumption of my addiction I'd picked up like an old friend after getting out of prison, I perked up as much as possible when Ian Darke broke out his timeless line, "and the break's on here for the USA..."

My parents and I weren't exactly on good terms in the summer of 2010, an expected side effect of stealing every dime someone has to put in your arm. But if dad and I were going to come together over anything, it was the US Men's National Team. So while I waited for a bed to open in rehab, I watched the greatest moment in American soccer history with one of two people left in the world who still loved me at that time (hi, mom!).

My father never came close to selling me on the Red Sox, didn't closely follow the NBA or NHL and succeeded only in passing along a small enthusiasm for the Patriots. But no prodding was needed to encourage 8-year old Ben to hop in the car and drive to Foxboro in the spring of 1997 to watch the US take on Mexico. I fell in love immediately. I'd never seen that many people in one place. I'd never seen such fanatics. I soaked in every moment of us overcoming an own-goal to salvage a tie and then soaked in every moment of being in the same vicinity as Carlos Valderama's majestic hair in the Mutiny/Revs nightcap.

Dad couldn't wait to take me to Ken's Steakhouse after the game and as we pulled in, I looked across the street and exclaimed, "Friendly's!!!" You see, at the time, we only had about five Friendly's in northwestern Vermont and I'd only eaten there a couple thousand times. Dad never argued. As he's done from day one for myself and my sisters, he saw to it that we got what we wanted no matter how much it inconvenienced him. Instead of discussing my first real game on the ride home after a nice steak, dad listened to the radio for four hours then carried his sleeping son inside. I'd wolfed down an
entire chicken pot pie and fallen asleep before we reached the interstate.

Two summers later we returned to Foxboro and sat high above the field as the US thumped Barbados. As long as I live I will never forget the sight of that Tab Ramos volley nearly going straight through the net. I spent hours and hours trying to perfect my own volley on the fields near our home. My only letdown from that game was not being able to use my "America's Behind Cobi" sign to get on TV, as my favorite player was on a yellow-card suspension.

Any disappointment from '99 was erased two summers later, when dad made sure to get tickets to the US/Jamica World Cup Qualifier the minute they went on sale. I can safely assume  now that he spent money he didn't really have to spend an unforgettable day with his son. Mission accomplished. 11 rows off the field right at the players entrance, I got a dozen autographs (Bruce Arena, Joe Max Moore, Cobi Freaking Jones!!!!). I said hi to Nomar Garciaparra, an avid fan on the field for the game (though he wasn't signing autographs, you Sox fans may remember his wrist wasn't in such great shape in the summer of '01). I watched the US drop Jamica (thanks to fine play from a young Landon Donovan) and yelled at opposing fans across the aisle. My dad and I stood about 30 feet from the US players as they celebrated punching a ticket to their best World Cup after seeing the desired Costa Rican result flash on the scoreboard. If a boy can have a better day, I don't know how.

****

Nine summers later, dad's boy wasn't having such a good day. But there we sat, enjoying the one remaining bond we had. As close as I was to giving up, my father hadn't. And neither had Landon Donovan. He handed off to Jozy Altidore in the corner and continued his full field run. Minutes away from a prompt World Cup exit, very apt for the particular USMNT fan that summer, Jozy centered the ball.

"And Dempsey is denied again..." Of course

"But Donovan has scored!!!!"

I don't think I heard the rest of Darke's historic call until replaying the game. I still remember just falling to my knees, amazed and relieved to remember that sometimes people come out of hopeless situations to grab a win. I hugged my father for the first time since he'd picked me up outside the Northern State Correctional Facility a few months prior.

Days later, I watched the US fall to Ghana practically through tears at a friend's house. That hope the US had given me days before was being brutally ripped away. Of course, I got it back for a minute when we won a spot kick, and who else was going to step up? Landon Donovan drilled that PK and I got to run around high-fiving my friend's family -- extrordinary happiness in an otherwise dismal time.

****

Things didn't get much better after that. A few days later, my parents dropped me off for an unsuccessful rehab stint. It wasn't until fairly recently that I finally grew up. I moved to Colorado for a few months and watched every minute of the 2014 World Cup, being reminded again by the USMNT more than once (and from both sides) that giving up is pointless. I mumbled each game that we'd be more successful with Donovan up top and cringed every time I saw him in a suit on TV at halftime.

17 years after my father took me to Foxboro to put something in my life that has, at times, been my only light, I get to return the favor. When I saw we were hosting Ecuador in Hartford on October 10th, I thought it would be nice to get tickets and go with him for his birthday. When it was announced that this Friday would be Donovan's last game in a USMNT uniform, I didn't hesitate.

It will be nice to thank Landon for what he's given me while I do the same for my father. I don't know if we'll see another play like the Ramos volley and I doubt we'll enjoy the day quite like 2001. But perhaps Donovan will do what Donovan does, find the back of the net, and dad can get a hug from a son who's finally attempting to make him proud sincerely for just about the first time since we last saw the USMNT in person. I can't wait.

Oh, and dad, you can pick the restaurant this time...