Mack and Kelly

My grandmother used to tell my Mom that my Dad and I were more like brothers than father and son. I’ve never been too sure of that, but I understand how she came to feel that way.

My Dad, George E. Lang Sr., was forty when I was born. I don’t recall much roughhousing with him growing up, not the way my son Sean and I used to. What my Dad lacked in youthful energy and a pain free lower back, he more than made up for in affection.

One of my earliest memories was sitting on his lap in the kitchen of our house on Oak Park Avenue in Chicago. We were Mack and Kelly, two stagecoach drivers plying our way through the Wild West. We would fend off bad guys (maybe Indians back then) along the way. For the life of me, I can’t recall who was Mack and who was Kelly, but boy oh boy, were we the team!

While my Dad’s back prevented him from playing much catch (that was my brother Dick’s job – he used to throw me high pop ups that I couldn’t even see until their descent), he taught me about baseball and my love for our Chicago Cubs. He even caught a foul ball for me! Okay, truth be told, sitting in the first row in the upper deck, the line drive by Don Kessinger off of Tom Seaver, hit the stairs, bounced against the fencing and my Dad used his foot to shuffle it away from other eager hands and into his own. No matter. I still have that ball!

He also gave me my love of hockey. I remember watching the Blackhawks with him, listening to Lloyd Pettit calling the games on the black and white television While he couldn’t get out there and play ice or street hockey with me, he made sure that he went in on season tickets so we could see those great Hawk teams together, with the likes of Stan Mikita and Bobby Hull.

He also did his best teaching me tennis and golf. Neither one took too well. I always wanted to hit the tennis ball over the fence like an Ernie Banks home run rather than inside those silly lines. And golf, oh golf, it was too much like work. Dad always said to be good on the green, you needed to putt a thousand balls. Who has that kind of time? Not me.

The thing is, Dad always did things the “right” way. No shortcuts entered into his routine. Of course by the time I was a teenager and had things to do, shortcuts sounded like a great idea. When my folks had their camper, it was always a job to hook up the trailer hitch to Dad’s yacht-sized 98 Oldsmobile. Because this took place on a slanted driveway, it involved the trailer crank, jacks, blocks of wood, and an inordinate amount of time for a seventeen year old kid that wanted to cruise with his crew. One day, with the project looming and my buddies on their way, I petitioned my Dad to get ready to secure the ball hitch. Being pretty sturdy back then, I lifted the ass end of the Olds up and we got the hitch secured. No blocks or jacks for this kid. Dad of course, just shook his head and muttered that wasn’t the way to do it. Of course he was right. My back now, tells me he was right. The other time that he gave in to my shortcutting ways was when my Aunt Clara had passed away and we were tasked with cleaning out her third floor apartment. My aunt had perhaps the largest collection of plastic plants, homemade ornaments, and other random crap of anyone on the northwest side of Chicago. After a couple trips up those stairs to the third floor, my Dad amazingly, even eagerly, agreed to my suggestion of throwing everything but electronics and furniture out the third floor window. Still being careful, and in his way, doing this the “right” way, he went outside to be sure no one would come in harm’s way.

The one activity that we could truly participate in together was fishing. Ever since my first bluegill when I was 5 or 6, we were true fishing partners. Each year, we’d make our way to Big Muskellunge Lake in Vilas County Wisconsin. We’d rent a row boat from old man Roche, complete with an anchor that was an old coffee can loaded with cement. It was time to buy minnows. We fished, the two of us, with my Mom in the boat reading, until it was time for dinner. Eventually I un-invited Mom so that Dad and I could really get serious. By the time I was 16, devouring every fishing magazine I could get my hands on, I was pretty sure I knew a lot. My Dad always insisted on buying what were called Northern Minnows because those 3 inchers were good for northern pike. I, on the other hand, always drooled at the giant muskie suckers and thought we should try our luck with them. They were expensive and not really suited for the way we fished, but at this point, having earned my own money, I told Dad that if he didn’t want to pop for them, I would. It turns out, he caught the largest fish he ever caught on one of those suckers, a 10 1/2 pound walleye that hangs here in my office. He even received an award from Field and Stream magazine.

These were just a few snippets of the lifetime of memories I hold of my Dad. They speak nothing of the truly important things that he taught me and represented. Things like hard work, and smarter work. Things like his integrity and morals that truly made him the man that he was. Things such as his devotion and love of family that he instilled in me and my brothers.

Each day when I say my prayers, I thank God that he brought me to the best Mom and Dad and family a kid could want. I still miss ya Mack (or Kelly, as the case may be).