Just win, baby. If you grew up with my father, you heard that often, notably during any sort of competition. It typically came with minor (and sometimes major) bending of the rules. Stealing cash when the banker isn’t looking during Monopoly? Just win, baby. Completely altering the score during a one-on-one game of basketball? Just win, baby.
Needless to say, the old man did not like losing. It’s a trait he passed on to both of us sons, which probably explains why I refused to let my kids, nieces and nephews win at any game, including Uno. If that meant drawing 17 cards to get a “Draw 4,” so be it.
I really didn’t see Dad’s competitiveness until I was a 10-year-old in, of all things, the Boy Scouts. It was Pine Tar Derby season, and the only person more excited about the race than me was my dad. Per the rules, we worked together on the wooden car, cutting out the shape and adding the plastic wheels.
Ever the procrastinator, I waited until the last minute to decide on the car’s “branding.” My mother bailed me out, doing almost all the painting. It really was a beaut, Clark! The car was Kansas City Royals blue with a crown logo on one side of the top and “Royals” on the other side. On the sides, Mom painted “1985,” “KC” and “Champs.” Trolling at its finest (we lived in Lebanon, Missouri, heart of Cardinals country).
On the night of the derby, which included all the troops in Lebanon, I learned very quickly that many of the Scouts and their fathers took this event seriously, even more so than the old man and I. Many of the cars were elaborately decorated. My car stood out because it had arguably the simplest fabrication and didn’t look like a rocket scientist had spent hours making it more aerodynamic.
Still, races aren’t won in dads’ garages. I took my car to the track, a four-foot-tall, sloped and wooden road less than 20 feet long. In the format back then, three Scouts raced at one time, with the winner advancing to the next round. In an era before participation trophies, the runner-up and third-place car were done for the night.
Dad and I cheered wildly, as all of the competitors, fathers and moms did that night, as we made it through the first few rounds with my modest Royals ride. Then came the moment when I realized just how competitive my father was.
The race was close, a photo finish, only there weren’t cameras. One of the judges quickly awarded his buddy’s son the win. Keep in mind that my father essentially grew up behind bars, so he wasn’t afraid to stand up for himself. As I walked over to pick up my car, the judge looked at me almost apologetically at first, but his face shifted quickly.
The old man was glaring at this man, and, having seen Dad’s temper, I braced myself for a confrontation. Imagine my surprise when he put his hand on my shoulder, looked into my disappointed eyes and said, “Son, it’s OK. You did great.” He then looked up at the judge and said softly but firmly, “You know this is wrong. You know better.”
After the Derby ended, we left with ribbon for most original design. Dad cussed when we got in the car, of course. “That was bullshit! You should have been in the finals!”
More than 30 years later, the car sits on a shelf between our kitchen and living room. I hear my father’s voice saying “Just win, baby” every time I walk by it.
TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS SERIES
Twelve Days of Christmas, Part I: Rest in peace, Dan Ascheman
2022 finale: The search for James “Danny” Hollingshead continues