![]() ![]() It took some amazing work by my sister just to get him there, traveling from Bay City to Charlevoix, but he made it. He was the man with the khaki pants, who made it to my son Jake’s wedding this summer. My father was an insanely proud, second-generation MSU alum and on Sunday mornings, he would greet our pastor - a huge U-M fan - with constant rivalry banter. There were MSU cups and pendants and flags, and whenever you didn’t know what to get him for Father’s Day or a birthday, you got him MSU stuff. The basement looked like the MSU bookstore had vomited everywhere. He was the man in the green-and-white sweatshirt, who came running down the stairs as MSU played Indiana State in the 1979 NCAA championship. He was not confrontational - he was always calm and reserved but he pulled me aside and made sure that I knew it was wrong. He was the man who heard someone tell a racist joke and it bothered him deeply. Years later, when I was playing catch with my own sons, I realized how his arm must have hurt but he never said a word. I was a first baseman, and I would have him throw it in the grass, so I could practice scooping the ball on the bounce. He was the man with the old baseball glove, who would play catch for hours in the front yard.
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