Father Of Mine

Father’s Day 2025 is in the books, but I hope you’ll indulge me a brief look-back as we start the new week.  Whether you are a father or you celebrated/remembered yours yesterday, there were many great tributes over the weekend online.

But compared to the moms, our dads often play a more subtle, behind-the-scenes role.  When athletes – especially rookies – are highlighted, it seems like its more often the player’s mom who is beaming (or hand-wringing) in the stands.  Dad may be there, too, but he’s more often than not in the background.  Same with those rock stars – like Bruce Springsteen and Dave Grohl – where we know the backstories of their mothers.  But dad – more likely to be out of the picture.

And after all, there are all those “MOM” tattoo tributes, often worn by the burliest guys.  Ink to honor dad?  Far less common.

So, on the fumes of dad’s day this year, it’s a blog post giving dad his props, whether it’s your father, or it’s you who’s now the dad or both.  For me, this year’s Father’s Day was a special one.  My dad – Sidney R. Jacobs (pictured) – passed away nearly four decades ago.  I’ve been lucky enough to be a dad myself for a long time now, trying to follow in my father’s big footsteps.  The big difference this year?  It was my first as a grandfather, and I reveled in every second of it.

I think of my dad a lot throughout the course of each year.  He was most definitely an “old school” guy who enjoyed tradition, usually eschewing tech and other new gimmicks as trendy ways brands get us to spend money on stuff we don’t need.  We were the last on our block to get a color TV, and that was only because our old Zenith black-and-white television finally went on the fritz.

Sidney (as I fondly called him throughout most of my teens) was a WWII guy, serving in the Army and proudly earning a Bronze Star.  He often used Army lingo, frequently mentioning how uptight people were “nervous in the service.”  He was truly a member of the Greatest Generation, those born before 1946, and proud to have served his country at a most pivotal time.

He reminded me a great deal of the George Bailey character from “It’s A Wonderful Life,” played by Jimmy Stewart.  While my dad’s two brothers became dentists, he returned to Detroit after the war to run the modest family business with his dad.  The company sold paper and plastics products to small “party stores,” or as we called them in Detroit, “Beer and Wine’s.”  He did not enjoy the work or the company, but never complained.

Yet, when it was time to counsel me, Paul, and Bill on our careers, his advice was consistent:

“Find something that you love to do, and put everything you’ve got into it.”

And then there was the addendum:

“But make sure you can make a living at it.”

He had no idea about the intricacies of the broadcasting business, but he was a loyal radio listener – to J.P. McCarthy, morning icon of “The Great Voice of the Great Lakes,” WJR.  Sidney didn’t really “get” the rock n’ roll business model, but trusted me that there was indeed a “there there.”  He supported the three of us and never questioned our career path.  When I walked out of WRIF in 1983, he encouraged me to take the entrepreneur route. He was a huge proponent of going into business for yourself, rather than work for “some schmuck” who doesn’t have your best interest in mind.

When he passed away suddenly in 1986, I only had a couple of Classic Rock stations going – WMMQ (Lansing) and KCFX (Kansas City), but there was obvious momentum to suggest it was going to work.

The thing about my dad was his confidence he could talk to and befriend anybody.  He reminded me, “Everybody’s in sales,” a concept that took me a few years to get my head around.  Sidney had a warm, relatable quality.  People of all walks of life enjoyed talking to him.

I had a couple friends who had were going through rough patches with their dads.  Sidney let them know they could talk to him whenever they liked.  And they each took advantage of the offer.  I remember one in particular who regularly stopped by the house to visit him – not me.

Sidney believed in getting involved and doing the right thing, especially when no one was looking.  There was nothing showy about him in the least.  He purposely shied away from luxury brands whether it was the cars he’d never drive, the clothes he’d never wear, or the country clubs he’d never join.

He had unusual qualities to be sure.  It was uncanny, but he always managed to be in the bathroom during the big play.  And he lived in the days before Instant Replay and DVRs.

I often think about how he would have reacted to our modern times.  “Advances” like social media, AI, and online dating would have made him furious.  He was a staunch defender of the “little guy,” always pointing out how the masses often voted against their best interests.  He distrusted politicians of all stripes, having been an activist for a short while around the time I was born.   Watergate didn’t surprise him, nor would he be all that shocked by what’s happening in our country right now.

He loved underdogs, always backing the awkward, downtrodden, or less talented people but the ones who had heart.  “Damn Yankees” was his favorite Broadway show for precisely those reasons.

True story:  During the Detroit Tigers pennant race in 1967 – there were no divisions back then, just the American and National Leagues – it was September and the race was tight.  His favorite Tiger was a weird, smirky Texan, Norm Cash (pictured).  “Stormin’ Norman” didn’t look like a ballplayer and he had an awkward swing.  In most years, his performance was abysmal early in the season, but as the weather would warm up, so would Cash. That year, he came alive in August, starting to smash home runs on a more consistent basis.  While everyone else backed the sleek, smooth Al Kaline, my dad loved backing the enigmatic Cash.

So, it’s a September night, the pennant race is hot, and the Tigers are playing a crucial, do-or-die series against the Yankees.  We’re listening on the radio in the kitchen, and Ernie Harwell and Ray Lane are reading the starting lineups – and Cash is on the bench.  Sid cannot believe it, raving about how Tigers manager, Mayo Smith (pictured) is out of touch and is going to lose the game with Norm Cash out of the lineup.

And then it happens.  Sidney says, “I have half a mind to call that dolt Mayo Smith in the dugout and give him a piece of my mind.”  I taunt him – “Oh yeah, why don’t you do it then?”

And Sid Jacobs, seller of paper and plastics to party stores in Detroit, grabs the phone and places “a person-to-person long distance call to Mayo Smith in Yankee Stadium in the Bronx.”  In those days, a person-to-person call meant the operator did the heavy lifting – looking up the number, dialing it, and then locating the person you were trying to call.  And so it went.  The phone was answered by the Yankee Stadium switchboard, it was transferred around the stadium, eventually ending up in the Tigers’ dugout, and minutes before the start of this key September matchup between two contending teams for the American League pennant, the operator is telling Mayo Smith he has a person-to-person call from Sid Jacobs in Detroit.  That’s right, my dad is about to actually speak with the team’s manager to lodge a complaint about a benched first baseman.

By now, I’m on the bedroom “extension” phone (a Princess) listening to my dad introduce himself to Mayo Smith and respectfully make his feelings known about this egregious lineup error.  Shockingly, Smith was courteous and patient with my dad for the 30 seconds this call lasted.  The Tigers lost that game against those “Damn Yankees,” and then went onto lose the pennant to the Boston Red Sox on the last day of the 1967 season.  My dad never forgave Mayo Smith – until the Tigers won it all – the pennant and the World Series the next year.  And Norm Cash played a key role in both the regular season and in that championship Series.

The things you remember about your dad.  I think about the memories I’ve given my kids over the years.  I can only hope they’re in the same ballpark as the ones I have with my dad.

As for those of you who are dads, we can’t forget the impressions we make on our children, and how important they are into their development as adults.

Maybe they’ll even get a “DAD” tattoo.