The Tampa Decision

Dad had been out of work for a while. Age has wiped many of these memories away, but I seem to recall his being fired by the Bears, almost instantly being hired by the WFL's (World Football League) Chicago Wind, that team eventually folding before their season ended, and then...nothing. Nothing. Dad sitting at home in his elaborate full sized bar basement, playing cards with friends and drinking beer. There was an aura of uncertainty in the Gibron house, a sense that a radical lifestyle shift was about to take place. Granted, we had only been living in Michigan City, Indiana for a little over ten years, but it felt like home. Even with the occasional stays in Chicago proper, our oversized house on Kenwood Place remains the established roots I think back on whenever the twinges of mortality take over.

Still, Dad being out of work was a big deal. It was the first time I had ever experienced unemployment, and from what I could see, it was not very pretty. He was angry - angry that the Bears hadn't been better under his regime. Angry that the new General Manager hadn't given him a chance with the draft pool they were picking from. Angry that the Winds didn't have a sound financial backing, leaving his tenure there always up in the air, week after week. But mostly, he was angry because, throughout his years, he had been the rock to everyone's - my mother's, my grandmother's, the extended family's on both side - unsure lives. He had taken up football in hopes of making something of himself (he actually earned a history degree at Purdue, and would have pursued teaching had he gone undrafted) and had been very successful in that regard. Now, for the first time in more than 20 years, he was on the outside of the NFL looking in.

Not that I really cared, come to think of it. I was your typical 14 year old - belligerent, antisocial, putting on a facade for adults but secretly sneaking out at night to smoke weed with my friends. I even had a post-pot kit which I kept well hidden in our detached two story garage (complete with apartment over the car bays). In the container - actually, one of those amazing "secret panel chests" you could buy at Disney World in the magic shop near the end of Main Street - was Tic Tacs (for breath), Visine (for the eyes), a small bottle of Scope (in case the mini-mints weren't doing the job) and various other accessories (after shave, Binaca, Q-tips)  I thought necessary to keep my cover. I remember when we were moving, I stumbled across the box, it's Haunted Mansion themed label peeling and/or partially removed. I opened it and a wave of weeknight subterfuges  came flooding back (it was empty, of course).

Even worse, I had just started attending the LaLumiere School for Boys, an "exclusive" boarding school out in the Indiana wilds near LaPorte. My parents had deemed my previous public school education "unworthy" of my supposed genius, so it was a choice between the Culver Military Academy toward the South end of the State, or LaLumiere. Those who know me easily understand the resulting decision. Sure, I was massively homesick at first, but once I connected with a group of like-minded dorm mates, all equally infused with a desire to smoke dope, listen to rock 'n' roll, and hang out, I was fine. Still, Dad being out of work was always in the back of my mind, the threat that finances could upend my newfound freedom (and fun) constantly  risking a return back to Michigan City (and Rogers High School).

Somehow, my parents made it work. I don't remember having a single conversation about the cost of LaLumiere, the numerous requests the bookstore would make for "additional funds" to our purchasing accounts (usually for mid-study hall runs for Mountain Dew, Doritos, and numerous candy bars), or the occasional trips into Chicago with my friends. I do remember several instances where we'd have an available weekend open for returning home, and being one of the five or six students left behind. As I started my stay at LaLumiere, Dad had begun looking for work, and I seem to recall weekends where he was out, schmoozing with potential teams and former coaching associates, my mother tagging along for the ride.

It was sometime in February when the call came. It was weird. We usually didn't get calls from home during the school day. In fact, more times than not, we spent a few minutes before study hall waiting in line, taking turns on the dorm's front desk handset for whatever communication needs we had. But to get called into the Headmaster's office during the day was a big deal. It was almost always bad news and you rarely saw the student return for the rest of that day. Still, a senior server walked up to me with a piece of paper, and I could see the rest of my table staring back like I was a death row prisoner who lost his pardon. I knew what the note meant, and I wasn't sure what to think as I walked to the building adjacent to the dining hall.

To make matters worse, when I arrived, the Headmaster's secretary had the phone IN HER HANDS! This meant that whoever was on the other end needed to speak with me ASAP. As I walked to the desk, I trembled a bit. Even at my smug, seemingly superior age, I was still unsure about how to handle tragedy. I grabbed the receiver and mumbled my, "Hello."

"Bill, it's your dad," came the matter of fact reply from the other end. Great, I thought, he's trying to be serious.

"What's wrong?" I asked, hoping everything is okay.

"Nothing. Don't worry," he chided, "I just want to ask you something."

I was floored. My father rarely asked anyone anything. He was more of a teller, or perhaps a better way to say it, he was a absolute dictator. He made the decisions and there was never a need for a quorum. So the fact that he wanted to ask me something was stunning. Naturally, a billion possibilities passed through my mind (it's amazing how quickly my brain leapt from the potential funeral I had to prepare for to the curious state of this particular conversation) and I made some minor small talk.

"Listen," he said in the same determined manner, "I have two possible job offers. One is down in Tampa with my old buddy John McKay, the other is in Seattle." I knew the names. The NFL had been abuzz with news of the expansion into Florida and Washington state, and I had wondered if Dad would be up for any of the available jobs there. He continued. "I wanted to ask you for your choice. Which one would you choose? I mean, which place would you want to live? This effects you, you know?"

I was speechless. Not only was my Dad asking me for my opinion - something he never did - but he made it sound like something I said just might influence his decision. I couldn't believe it. I was taken aback. Was Abe Gibron really asking his oldest son Bill what job to seize? Better yet, was he giving me a choice of Seattle vs. Tampa? Really?

I was about to say something when reality kicked in. I can't describe it. It's like a wave of resignation washed over me. Here was my Dad asking me where I preferred to live for the next few years (at least, that's what I assumed he was asking) and all I could think of was "Who cares?" After all, I was in boarding school, and would be for another three years. I was happy and had friends and family in the area. I didn't need to leave. I was 14 going on 50. I was fine just where I was at.

In those moments before I muttered my answer, a thousand snide retorts reverberated inside my head. I was prepared to go full angry adolescent on my dad...but I didn't. I realized it really didn't matter and I told him as much.

"Listen," I said, "you've never really asked me for my advice before, and I am not sure why you are asking for it now, but I really don't care which job you take. I'm sure Mom would prefer to be near the beach, so I assume you'll do whatever makes her happy. I have to get back to lunch now before classes start back up. Sorry."

There was a silence on the other end of the phone. I am sure my dad was trying to figure out whether he could tear me a new a-hole through the receiver or just wait until he got his snotty little son home to do the damage. Whatever the case, he eventually said something like "OK, we'll talk about it this weekend," and we ended the call. I went back to my already cold meal, got a chance to scarf it down while the rest of the Hall was being cleaned, and had to go back to the office to get a permission slip to walk into Trigonometry 20 minutes late. Already, the next four days were playing out in my head, the numerous punishments my father was about to force on me becoming more and more inventive in their creativity and cruelty.

Oddly enough, when I got home, the decision was already made. Tampa it was. Mom seemed excited about getting down to the sun and fun of Florida and I felt a slight twinge of excitement knowing we would be mere minutes away from one of my favorite vacation destinations at the time - the old version of Disney World. Still, I was sad to see how predictable it had all been. What if I had been adamant about Seattle? Would I, today, be sitting in a Washington locale, typing away, wondering about the bygone days of grunge and pre-coffee cultural fixations? It didn't matter. Dad was already making plans to move down to the West Coast to start working with the team. Turns out, the Tampa decision wasn't much of one after all.