Then there was the night at Hara Arena, when she got splattered by two scuffling hockey fans, who — before they were thrown out — kicked over her Budweiser. She simply grabbed a couple of tissues, dried off, grinned and ordered a new brew.
In our family, my mom — Agnes Archdeacon — was the one with the level head, the sturdy backbone, the easy smile. Whenever things didn’t go quite as planned, she knew what to do.
I’m trying to remember those lessons right now.
My two sisters and I buried her a few days ago. She was 91 and had been battling Alzheimer’s disease.
A former English teacher — and a gal with a lifelong love of sports — she had sought refuge in both when her world began to crumble the last couple of years.
Some months back — when I visited her in the nursing home and asked how she was doing — she told me they were working her like a dog. “I’m teaching seventh-graders in the basement,” she fantasized.
Another time she beamed as she told me Tiger Woods — whom she liked very much — had stopped by to see her.
Even in her final days — when she wouldn’t eat and mostly slept — she had the television tuned to sports.
Her dad, L.W. Heckman, was the longtime coach of our high school hoops team, the Ottoville Big Green. She was the scorekeeper. When my father came to town in 1936 out of Miami University — where he had played some basketball — he became my grandfather’s assistant coach.
When my dad went off to World War II, he gave his 1940 black Plymouth to his girlfriend — later my mom — and with wheels, she became the team chauffeur. For four years of war — with gas severely rationed — she used tractor fuel to drive the players to away games.
When I was born, she gave up scorekeeping. By then my father was well into his refereeing and from two to four nights a week for more than 25 years, she packed his striped shirt, black pants and sweat socks before each game, then washed the stuff when he got back.
Often other refs would come along home with him for a late-night confab. My mom would have the beer cold, and soon the hamburgers and sausage would be frying in the skillet.
When I played for our high school team, she was at every game, and in the decades since, I’ve come to realize she was the best coach I ever had.
She encouraged me to write and to read, and she passed on that love of sports.
When I worked in Florida, she and my father would visit. But rather than going to the beach or the mall, they’d go to spring-training games, Miami Beach boxing matches and Miami Hurricane games.
She and my dad immersed themselves in the Cuban cheering sections at Miami Senior High, rooting for the basketball Stingarees just as passionately as they did the Big Green back home.
She followed the Dayton Flyers and Wright State, and when she was no longer able to go to Ottoville games, she listened to them on the radio.
She watched the NFL on TV, ran the family’s NCAA tournament pool and always bet on the Kentucky Derby.
Some years ago, she and my dad were at Hialeah Race Track. But while she studied her racing program before each wager, he simply kept betting the 5 horse.
Halfway through the day, he still had not won, and she started to get on him about studying past performances and maybe even watching the post parade.
After enough harassment, he finally relented, did some homework and put down a bet on the 4 horse.
The 5 won.
Paid like $50 on a $2 bet.
My father’s Irish temper kicked in. His face reddened and he moved a few seats away to sulk in silence. Finally, he told her she should mind her own business and pick her own horses.
She did — and won the next race.
That day, she left with the real daily double: My dad was on one arm, her winnings in her other hand.
Seventeen years after my dad’s death, she’s back at his side. We buried her next to him in the cemetery at the end of the street where we lived.
Except for the past few months, my mom clipped every story I ever wrote out of the newspaper, put it in a big envelope and penned the subject matter on the front.
Today I’ll return the favor. I’ll clip this one and leave it at her grave. She’d appreciate it.
She always did read the sports page first.
About the Author