I don't know about you, but The Referee has never been terribly interested in those official days throughout the year which we're all supposed to observe with some reverence but which most of us suspect were made up five minutes ago by people with a significant financial stake in the success of greetings card companies. This includes Fathers' Day, which has never done a great deal for me, despite the fact that I have now qualified to be honoured for more than a decade.
(Those in doubt about these sorts of things should note that it is properly "Fathers' Day" - the day belonging to fathers plural, not "Father's Day" - the day belonging to one father, unless of course one is of the view that everyone currently alive is the offspring of just the one man, in which case the latter would be correct, if a little unlikely. (Fill in your own joke here about which man it might be, and the fact that he must be very tired, etc.) Alternatively, those who are uncomfortable with having to calculate precisely which day belongs to whom might like simply to opt out of the possessive by using "Fathers Day" - ie the day which nods generally in the direction of fathers without actually belonging to them as such. I hope that helps.)
Anyway, unlike my previous nine qualifying Fathers' Days, this one was a pleasant surprise, for two reasons. Firstly, I received from my two sons the best Fathers' Day offering I have ever received, or could reasonably expect to, of which more in a moment. Secondly, the gift came with a mystical tale, elevating it instantly to the stuff of legend, at least in our house.
The gift in question was a baseball glove. Not just any old baseball glove, you understand. To be precise (and vegetarians, vegans and other cattle-lovers should look away now) it's a Rawlings black leather 12.5 inch Instinct series with a pad lock, dual wings and basket web. I have no idea what any of that means, but I do know that there is something undeniably manly about going out into the yard (how can a place almost exclusively comprising grass, trees and wildlife be called a "yard"?) and throwing an implausibly hard ball with all one's might in the direction of one's junior male offspring, only for them to smile as they catch it in their glove and return it just as agressively as it arrived.
(By the way, anyone reading this (as if!) who is in need of work could do worse than get into the US patent business. I notice that the Rawlings Dual Wing has US patent number 4,853,975, and the Pad Lock has number 5,457,829. But I still don't know what either of them are.)
Even better than the glove, however, was the story of its purchase. The offspring had visited the local branch of a well-known US sporting chain, let's call it Sports Authority. After deciding that their old dad was a Rawlings 12.5 inch Instinct black leather kind of chap, the offspring stood "in line", as New Yorkers insist on calling it, when they noticed something of a kerfuffle (a much under-used word, I'm sure you'll agree) at the check-out. It transpired that a number of other small boys were jockeying for the autograph of the one and only Mariano Rivera, who was in the middle of paying for something.
American readers will need no further explanation. Others need to know that Rivera is the principal closing pitcher for the Yankees - ie the most accurate and reliable pitcher of all, who is brought on only for the last inning, if that, to ensure that the lead is not squandered or - more often this season - that things don't get any worse. Suffice to say that Rivera is perhaps the most senior and respected closer currently playing. For British readers, you'll not be far off if you imagine nipping into your local J&B Sports for a pair of shin pads and finding yourself in the queue behind John Terry.
Being enterprising sorts, the offspring joined the kerfuffle and each came away with an autograph of the great man who is, by all accounts, a thoroughly nice chap.
On the morning of Fathers' Day, the glove was handed over and the story was recounted. One way or the other, I was informed, the glove was blessed by having been bought in the presence of the great Rivera.
We then set off to our local church, where there is a Fathers' Day tradition of an impromptu men's choir, in which fathers, sons, nephews, uncles etc are all invited to join in the enthusiastic singing of hymns which are either sexist or employ military imagery or, preferably, both.
Afterwards, the junior boy pointed out to me that the announced number of males in the impromptu choir - 42 - was also the Yankees shirt number worn by Mariano Rivera for more than a decade. Not to mention the number of our house. And, for fans of the late Douglas Adams, the answer to life, the universe and everything.
Perhaps, I pondered, the glove was pointing us towards what physicists call the Grand Unification Theory.
To put it another way, as we often say in our house: spooky, or what?
