Time Ferments the Lessons of Youth
From the series: "STAND OUT IN THE CROWD"
by Frank Allocco, Sr.
Series Introduction
Some eye opening basketball statistics:
The beauty of sports is not in becoming a great player, it is the learning of valuable Life Skills that will serve players throughout their lives. If we look beyond the focus of winning and achieving success, the arena of competition is one of the finest classrooms a young player could ever have.
Some eye opening basketball statistics:
- 2.9% of high school players will play college basketball.
- Less than 1 in 75, or 1.3 percent of NCAA Seniors will be drafted by an NBA Team.
- About 3 in 10,000 players (0.03 percent) of high school seniors will eventually be drafted by an NBA team.
The beauty of sports is not in becoming a great player, it is the learning of valuable Life Skills that will serve players throughout their lives. If we look beyond the focus of winning and achieving success, the arena of competition is one of the finest classrooms a young player could ever have.
My father worked at J.K. Smit and Sons, one of the many factories that lined Central Avenue, one of the three “major” streets in the small town of New Providence, New Jersey. My dad began his tenure there at the age of 26 and left abruptly after being denied a small pay raise at the age of 50. He then embarked on a new challenge as a valued courier for All State Insurance where his work ethic, promptness, and organizational skills served him well until his retirement.
Throughout his working years, my father was a great provider to his family as he diligently worked several jobs allowing us to live comfortably in our modest home. In addition to his lengthy workdays at the factory, he supplemented his income by cleaning our parish rectory and church, umpiring baseball and softball games, working as the fire inspector for the town, and cutting the lawn at the factory where he worked. Furthering his compensated duties, he also assisted as a volunteer at Church Bingo games, and as he approaches his 94th birthday, continues his 67 years of service as a volunteer fireman.
Throughout his working years, my father was a great provider to his family as he diligently worked several jobs allowing us to live comfortably in our modest home. In addition to his lengthy workdays at the factory, he supplemented his income by cleaning our parish rectory and church, umpiring baseball and softball games, working as the fire inspector for the town, and cutting the lawn at the factory where he worked. Furthering his compensated duties, he also assisted as a volunteer at Church Bingo games, and as he approaches his 94th birthday, continues his 67 years of service as a volunteer fireman.
"My father was an outstanding “coach” who convinced my little brother that pushing the hand mower would develop his thighs and help him pursue his dream of being a great running back."
Every spring, summer, and fall Saturday my younger brother Richard and I had the unenviable task of helping our father cut the spacious lawn that framed J.K. Smit and Sons. Despite our reluctance to assist, we proved to be a good team. My father was an outstanding “coach” who convinced my little brother that pushing the hand mower would develop his thighs and help him pursue his dream of being a great running back. He assigned me the job of trimming the curb grass bordering the lengthy driveway and the sidewalk adjacent to Central Avenue. It was not the most glamorous job, but my father explained that the squeezing of the clipper handles would develop my forearms and help me achieve my goal of becoming a star quarterback. The concept of job skills cross training for athletics was foreign to me and to this day I am still not sure what he was developing as his job was sitting upon the riding lawn mower driving the straight and long strips up and down the grass. Week after week we worked in harmony to make J.K. Smit look immaculate when the workers returned on Monday mornings.
One July Saturday, I was drenched in sweat, moving painfully upon my knees along the curb as I meticulously clipped the lawn border. Halfway through my monotonous “journey”, I looked back at my work and saw three of my friends riding their bikes in the distance. With towels tucked carefully in their bike racks, it was obvious they were heading to the community pool. I was instantly mortified, embarrassed that they would see me trimming the lawn, so I quickly ran down the long driveway and hid behind the factory until they had safely passed. After a few minutes, I returned to my chore, relieved that they didn’t see me, and silently resumed my work.
The memory of that day never crossed my mind until five decades later when I was visiting New Providence and drove by that old factory. As I saw the familiar building with a new name emblazoned across the front entry, the faded feelings of that hot and humid day were resurrected. My fleeting memories of the joyous times of my youth turned to sadness as I realized my immaturity had me locked in on the fact that I had to work while my friends got to play. My narrow focus prevented me from seeing the bigger picture of why my father labored the way he did and of the sacrifices he made by giving up his free time to work to provide for his family. My new understanding turned old feelings of embarrassment into a treasured moment of pride as I realized how special it was to work alongside my honorable father and my spirited younger brother in that summer of ’65.
Weeks later, I called my father and hesitantly shared my memory, explaining how panicked I was to have my friends see me laboring in the heat of a Saturday afternoon while they pedaled their way to the cool water of the town pool. I apologized to him for my insensitivity and lack of understanding and thanked him for the sacrifices he had made; giving up playing sports so he could umpire, relinquishing his evenings to work as a janitor at our parish church, and trading relaxing weekends to cut the lawn at the factory every Saturday. I concluded our conversation assuring him that I was proud of him for his lifelong example of service to his family and community and eternally grateful for the priceless small moments shared with him every summer Saturday. In looking back upon those special times, I realize now that J.K. Smit was a blank canvas used for numerous painted lessons and that I would give anything to cut the lawn with my father just one more time.
One July Saturday, I was drenched in sweat, moving painfully upon my knees along the curb as I meticulously clipped the lawn border. Halfway through my monotonous “journey”, I looked back at my work and saw three of my friends riding their bikes in the distance. With towels tucked carefully in their bike racks, it was obvious they were heading to the community pool. I was instantly mortified, embarrassed that they would see me trimming the lawn, so I quickly ran down the long driveway and hid behind the factory until they had safely passed. After a few minutes, I returned to my chore, relieved that they didn’t see me, and silently resumed my work.
The memory of that day never crossed my mind until five decades later when I was visiting New Providence and drove by that old factory. As I saw the familiar building with a new name emblazoned across the front entry, the faded feelings of that hot and humid day were resurrected. My fleeting memories of the joyous times of my youth turned to sadness as I realized my immaturity had me locked in on the fact that I had to work while my friends got to play. My narrow focus prevented me from seeing the bigger picture of why my father labored the way he did and of the sacrifices he made by giving up his free time to work to provide for his family. My new understanding turned old feelings of embarrassment into a treasured moment of pride as I realized how special it was to work alongside my honorable father and my spirited younger brother in that summer of ’65.
Weeks later, I called my father and hesitantly shared my memory, explaining how panicked I was to have my friends see me laboring in the heat of a Saturday afternoon while they pedaled their way to the cool water of the town pool. I apologized to him for my insensitivity and lack of understanding and thanked him for the sacrifices he had made; giving up playing sports so he could umpire, relinquishing his evenings to work as a janitor at our parish church, and trading relaxing weekends to cut the lawn at the factory every Saturday. I concluded our conversation assuring him that I was proud of him for his lifelong example of service to his family and community and eternally grateful for the priceless small moments shared with him every summer Saturday. In looking back upon those special times, I realize now that J.K. Smit was a blank canvas used for numerous painted lessons and that I would give anything to cut the lawn with my father just one more time.
"In looking back upon those special times, I realize now that J.K. Smit was a blank canvas used for numerous painted lessons and that I would give anything to cut the lawn with my father just one more time."
It is often in our self-absorption, typical of adolescence, that we lose the clear vision of the “story behind the story.” Our limited view prevents us from seeing beyond the surface of events as we lose the understanding of the many sacrifices our parents make for us each day. We forget to extend our sincere appreciation and abiding love for all that they do to provide for their families. But as we look deeper and gain the perspective of time and experience, our vision becomes crystal clear as the simplest of tasks become the most profound in the multitude of experiences in our journey to adulthood. The learned lessons become the foundation of our lives as we become the providers, raising our children with the spirit of love and sacrifice in our total commitment of service to them.
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