I was talking to a couple of my close friends’ fathers at one of my roommate’s graduation party from Chico State University in the summer of 1990.
The topic turned to my own dad. My pals’ fathers wanted to learn about my life. Fueled by pride, knowing what my father would want me to say and a few colds popped, I dug in.
“In my house, it’s about three things: God, John F. Kennedy,” then I paused for affect. “And Willie Mays.”
It brought down the house. But what I didn’t mention was that God and JFK were tied for second in that poll.