An Open Letter To A Really Bad Person
By Tom Danehy
DEAR FORMER SUPERSTAR:
Just a note to let you know how things are going with your daughter.
Not that you care, particularly, what with your conspicuous absence
in her life. I always figured that when you were in town, you
might stop by the house and see her. But then, with your ego,
your head probably wouldn't fit through her front door.
I remember you when you were a star in these parts. Great athletic
ability, no heart. No soul. No conscience. That's probably why
you really never caught on that big here. You can't really fool
people; most will see through you. A sports fan might say "Wow"
when Allan Iverson does something, but they don't warm to him.
They root for Gary Payton or Tim Hardaway. And they love
John Stockton.
You were the Allan Iverson of your day, I suppose. Blazing past
your athletic competition, while at the same time stumbling through
life. You hurt a lot of people, almost none of them on the field
of play.
Like I said, people can tell. That's why Sean Elliott is the
beloved figure he is in these parts. He's the Real Deal, open
and friendly, caring and concerned. Just about the complete opposite
of your sorry butt.
Maybe it was your criminal activity that turned people off. The
bungled credit-card scam that a seventh-grader could have told
you wouldn't work. The repeated incidents of sexual bullying (if
not all-out assault) which went unreported to the authorities,
but were common knowledge in the community. Or perhaps it was
just the physical assaults on women which were reported
to the authorities and ended up in the papers.
Whatever the case, you were never a hero in these parts. Heck,
even today, if somebody mentions your name, a thousand toilets
flush all over town.
You don't live here anymore, but I know you come to town every
now and then. I understand you're at the dog track so often, they
put in a revolving door just for you. It's really a shame you
can't find time to stop by and see your daughter; you might be
so overcome by guilt or pride, you might even acknowledge her
as your own. Naw, that would require you to act like an adult
human being.
She's a great kid; one of my all-time favorites. She just may
be the greatest natural athlete I've ever seen, but that's only
a small part of what makes her special. She's also a straight-A
student and a spectacular artist.
The kid's laugh is so infectious, she could probably make the
bad guy in The Matrix crack a smile. Her smile's so bright,
her close friends have a year-round sunburn off it. She's got
a bizarre sense of humor and a perfect sense of right and wrong.
She can sing and dance, but mostly, she can act. She acts like
a normal kid, rolling through high school. But inside, her heart
breaks a little bit each day, knowing that you deny her.
That's the funny part, in a pathetic-funny sort of way. There's
no way she's not your daughter. She looks just like you.
Same face, same walk, same athletic legs. Fortunately, she didn't
get your butt, which sits so high up on you, it looks like it's
attached to your shoulder blades.
I know all about your denial; it's mostly a matter of shirking
responsibility. That last word, responsibility, is a big one.
You'd better look that one up and then have somebody explain it
to you.
I've heard all the stories, but not from her. Heck, in a way,
she idolizes you. She even wears jackets emblazoned with the logo
of the professional team that made you a rich man.
She still holds onto a sliver of a dream that you're going to
bump your head on something and wake up and all of a sudden be
a dad. You'll waltz on in and start doing what you should have
been doing for the past 15 years. But we know better, don't we?
Why else would the kid have been crying her eyes out because
she couldn't come up with a lousy 25 bucks to go to the Winter
Formal dance at school? Her mom could've swung it if only Biological
Father had sent the child-support payment. But that would have
required effort on your part. And kindness. And responsibility.
I know all about your little scam. How you got married, then
got divorced on paper only, so you could put all your assets in
your "ex"-wife's name. You drive a Porsche and live
in a mansion, but officially, you don't have two nickels to rub
together, especially when the court order comes a'callin'.
Why send the money, anyway? Her mom might just use it to buy
food or clothes or something equally frivolous. You need that
money. Besides, you're supporting all those people who work at
Greyhound Park.
She's going through a rough time right now. Hey, she's a teenager;
it comes with the territory, unless you're one of the lucky few
who can manage to negotiate that blind curve of adolescence without
getting sweaty hands and a permanent lump in the throat.
Friends are turning out not to be. Puppy love is rearing its
ugly head in a real unproductive way. Little nagging injuries
are chipping away at the confidence with which she attacked her
athletic pursuits in the past. It'd be a great time to have a
dad. Even if it's you.
I know this really won't matter to you. I just wanted to tell
you so that when you're standing in front of the Southern equivalent
of St. Peter, you won't be able to say, "I didn't know."
Have a lousy day.
Sincerely,
Tom Danehy
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