A (too small) Tribute to My Dad

By Mike Gibson
There are very few people who understood my love of Temple football more than my Dad.
He was a guy who grew up a big Penn fan, went to Roman Catholic High and graduated from Villanova.
As a kid, around 10, he'd always send me off every Saturday with a couple of tokens so I could catch a couple of buses, a train, whatever, to Penn, Temple and Villanova football games.
I was a fan of all three teams but settled on Temple because I thought this was a school trying to do something the other two schools weren't: Bring a big-time college football atmosophere and winning team to Philadelphia.
The Owls had a name coach, Wayne Hardin, a guy who took Navy to No. 2 in the country in the early 1960s.
Soon, Hardin would make Temple a big-time and respected name and I was hooked.
I became a Temple fan for life.
I made a point of turning town a scholarship to a smaller school so I could attend Temple, get a journalism degree, and experience the atmosphere as a student, too.
I would always tell my dad I was a Temple fan because I wanted Philadelphia, Temple alumni and Temple students to experience the things other towns and other fans get to experience all the time _ a big-time football team playing in a big-time atmosphere.
It seems like everybody else gets to experience that except Temple fans and this led to a lot of weekends, mostly after graduating, coming home after particularly bitter losses.
After every loss, he'd seen my sour demeanor and feel my pain. Just like nobody can cover Bruce Francis, nobody takes a Temple loss harder than me. I become almost comatose.
"Mike, why do you put yourself through this?" my dad would say.
Then I'd tell him Temple fans deserve what Alabama fans and Texas fans and Penn State fans have.
Just once.

"Mike, why do you put yourself through this?" my dad would say.
Then I'd tell him Temple fans deserve what Alabama fans and Texas fans and Penn State fans have.
Just once.

"Some day," I told my dad. "Some day our stadium will be full and our fans will be smiling. Some day."
I was convinced. I am convinced it will happen.
Some day.
He'd always nod and understand my pain and why I put myself through this.
Today, I experienced his.
This morning, at 9:07 a.m., my dad died.
If you don't see any posts on this site for awhile, and you probably won't, it's because I'm helping handle things until he gets buried.
Hopefully, I'll feel a little better by next Wednesday, but I don't think so.