DanMargarita.com

On a recent Monday morning I happened to tune into Mike Barnacle’s talk show on WTTK, 96.9 FM. His guest was “Meet the Press” moderator Tim Russert, who is currently on a book tour promoting his latest “Wisdom of Our Fathers.” This is a follow-up to his successful book “Big Russ and Me” about his relationship with his father.

I’m a fan of Mr. Russert’s work, particularly in an age when it seems that most “news” anchors want to inject their opinions into whatever story they’re reporting. While Russert had worked for some Democrats before going into the news business, he makes a point of not giving his personal opinions, which I greatly admire. In this respect, he is the “anti-O’Reilly.”

It was announced that Mr. Russert would be signing copies of his new book at The Coop in Harvard Square, so it seemed like a good opportunity to buy a copy and get it signed for dad.

I have to admit, I had an ulterior motive. I had hoped to give my business card to Mr. Russert, for reasons that I’m not even sure of. The term is called “networking” which to me seems like a euphemism for “schmoozing.”

I know people who are masters at this. They hob-nob with someone famous or powerful and before you know it, have connections in all walks of life. Yet, I’m not comfortable promoting myself or schmoozing with people. When I try, I feel like I’m coming off more like the obnoxious salesman at the party that you can’t get away from.

Oh, I didn’t expect that Mr. Russert would view my website www.danmargaita.com (okay, there’s a plug) and book me to discuss the Iraq war on next week’s Meet the Press. I don’t know what I expected, though.

Yet, I did want to tell him about my own dad.

My father, Bob Margarita, is a local legend here in Stoneham, Massachusetts. He began teaching at Stoneham High in the early 1960’s and retired in 1987. After that, he became the school’s Athletic Equipment Man until just a few years ago when he became physically unable to handle it. Throw in his ten years as a football coach there, and the ingredients add up to local legend.

Yet it wasn’t simply longevity that made him beloved, but his gentle nature and sense of fairness that endeared him to generations of students. He was somebody that even the tough kids and non-students liked and respected because he didn’t talk down to them or disrespect them.

So off to Harvard Square I went. The book signing began at noon and I didn’t want to waste a lot of time taking the subway and the changing of lines that it would entail, so I drove in and parked at a garage around the corner, knowing full well that wouldn’t be cheap.

There was a bit of a line at The Coop, but not what I expected. I guess a lot of people do work on weekdays. First, I had to see if they had a large print edition of the book, as my father suffers from Macular Degeneration and can’t read normal type. If they didn’t I figured that I’d have to have Mr. Russert sign a regular copy and ask him if I sent a large print copy to him if he could sign it and return it. I’d pay the postage, of course.

I was in luck. A large-print version was available so I got in line, which had shrunk to just one person in front of me. This barely gave me time to plan what I would say. With a business card tucked in my pocket, I approached Mr. Russert, who is as affable in person as he appears in interviews.

“Who’s this for?” asked Russert.

“Make it out to ‘Coach’” was my reply.

“Coach!” he half asked and half repeated.

On Barnacle’s program, the subject of Robert F. Kennedy had come up just before the interview concluded, so my first thought was to mention that my father coached Bobby Kennedy when my dad coached at Harvard.

“No, kiddin’?”

I also added that my father was a local legend in town and was quite a guy. Then there was the awkward pause as I pondered my next move. Should I pull out my card? Should I tell him more about dad? Should I mention that when I go to local events, like the recent SHS Hall of Fame induction (he’s a charter member) that hanging out there with him is like hanging with U2's Bono? That one of his former players from the early '60's flew up from Florida to be there with him? He’s heard so many stories from so many about their fathers that I feared he might not to listen to one more. Though there was just one person in line behind me, I didn’t want to hold up the proceedings. Nor did I want to be embarrassed as some employee said “”I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to keep moving.”

So, I just shook his hand and said “I’ve enjoyed your work.”

It may be sucking-up, but it is true.

He thanked me and said “Say ‘hello’ to ‘Coach’ for me!”

I left and went to lunch at one of my favorite places, The Border Café, just around the corner. I don’t get there or to the location on Rte. 1 as much as I’d like due to my high cholesterol. It seems that you can’t get anything on their menu that doesn’t have cheese with the possible exception of diet soda, which you could probably get cheese on if you asked.

Having lunch there allowed me to read the introduction of his book and I realize that Mr. Russert probably wouldn’t mind hearing about one more father since he states that he got 60,000 emails and letters after his last book and read every one of them.

I would’ve told him about dad taking me down to play basketball at night at the high school gym while pretending he had work to do there. If he did that today, I’m sure that somebody would be complaining about him using taxpayer’s money when turning on the gym lights for my evening basketball play time.

Then there was the time as a youngster that I was in the hospital at Christmastime and wanted a number 14 football jersey. Thanks largely to my mom, a New York Giants fan, I was fascinated by their quarterback Y.A. Tittle. I’m not sure if it was because he was named “Y.A” or “Tittle” or because he was bald, all of which I found intriguing as a small child. On Christmas Day I woke up and over the backs of two chairs were two number 14 jerseys, one blue and one white. That went along well with the N.Y. Giants football helmet that my father had spray painted and put the famous “NY” decals on the side for me.

Having played running back and defensive back for the Chicago Bears after being a Medford High and Brown University football star, my dad knew the game inside and out. He never pushed me on it though, but did show me how to punt and was very proud when I booted a 60-yarder in a game that he came to. He was also impressed when as a freshman quarterback, I turned a busted play into a 30-35 yard gain, breaking tackles and dodging defensive players left and right. It mattered little to him that most of the yardage I gained was laterally and didn’t show up as more than a two-or-three yard gain in the scorebook. I showed a penchant (however briefly) for dodging tackles, and while I tried to play it cool when I got home (though secretly very proud of myself), he beamed and told me that I looked like the old man running the football.

In our side yard we had a basketball hoop that dad put up himself. This was long before you could go to Sears or MVP Sports and get a ready-made, adjustable model that is quite common today. Two metal poles stuck in concrete buried in the ground led up to a simple piece of wood that was regulation size with an official rim. A floodlight on the side of the house made it usable at night and our house often became a place for neighborhood kids to come and have somewhere to play.

There may not be enough to go on a book tour with this piece, but if I put it all down on paper, I'm sure I could write a book. With the stories that my siblings and I could tell, as well as those from former students, players and friends of my dad, it could probably fill a library.

So as Father’s Day approaches I want to wish all dads a Happy Father’s Day, but especially Big Russ, Little Russ and Dad.