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June
Lost & Found
The metal net snapped as the basketball hit it
squarely with plenty of backspin. Shirt off, I had
launched the ball during a friendly early morning
game of horse with my 11-year-old son. His hair was
surfer-blond like mine, only with a smattering of
red hues. The court had to be one of very few in
the country that had such a commanding view of the
Pacific; right on the beach. The hills of Laguna
Beach rose directly out of the ocean at an almost
impossibly steep pitch, with homes held up by
stilts hanging out over the cliff.
“That’s game, brother,” I said,
putting my sweaty arm around my boy. “We gotta
get you packed up.”
“Just a little longer, dad?”
“Nah, Seamus. We really have to get
going.”
We walked down to the wet sand. Big waves boomed
and rushed at us. A couple of surfers paddled in
the distance. The beach was still empty, except for
early morning walkers and a group of older women
doing martial arts in slow motion silence. I looked
at the ladies, wondering why I had never seen this
daily ritual back east.
My son, ex-wife, current wife, 13 year-old
daughter by the first marriage, and 5 year-old son
by the second—we all lived within a mile of
each other back in Boston. Together with Elena, my
second wife, I had rented a house for three weeks
in order to escape the thick snow, now turned to
dirty slush. Whereas I had been less than
successful in my personal life, I had made enough
money to travel to pretty much wherever I
wanted.
Seamus was a head shorter than I was, but we
shared more than an abundance of surfer-dude blond
hair. We were both long and lean and today we
walked with a similar casual gait, toes pointed
outward, staring into space. Neither of us was
talking.
As we approached the rented SUV, the quiet was
broken by a loud “Pssssssst!” Water
sprayed up in the air not more than fifty yards
offshore.
“Look at that, Seamus!” I said, as I
squinted to see through the glare emanating from
the surface of the Pacific Ocean.
Just as Seamus looked up, Nikes and basketball
in hand, he saw the whale breach. “Cool, dad!
That thing’s HUGE!”
“You’re telling me! What a beautiful
creature!”
“I’ve never seen one that close to
shore,” Seamus continued.
“Neither have I. March must be some sort of
migration season for them.”
We watched for a few minutes longer. After
filling its lungs, the whale disappeared into the
depths of the clear green ocean.
In the car, I couldn’t help thinking about
the hours I’d spent as a boy with my own dad,
an English Professor, reading Moby Dick out loud
and being dragged to whaling museums in Nantucket
and New Bedford. I had learned about scurvy, the
monotony of being at sea for months, and the
bravery of men in tiny boats attempting to kill
giant beasts. I could see the spool of rope, just
as my dad had described it, spinning as the whale
ran. The rope tore down the center of the whaling
boat, men on either side rowing to try to keep up
with the beast, and one sailor whose only job was
to pour water on the spool to keep it from catching
fire. In the car, if I inhaled deeply, I could
almost smell the stench of blubber being boiled
when the battle was over.
Beyond the mythic men of whaling, however,
seeing the whale so close reminded me of my
father’s fascination with the animals
themselves. As a child, my dad had been nicknamed
“Whale” for his ability to stay under
water for minutes at a time. Sometimes, in the car,
he would listen to eerie recordings of screeching
whales communicating with one another. As a Quaker,
my dad had been fascinated by the violence of
whaling, just like he had become a Civil War buff;
as if his pacifism led him to see the noble flaw in
men who killed man or beast out of fear or hatred
or for survival. However, it was the whales he
loved most deeply; it was of them that he seemed
most in awe.
That’s what I was thinking about as I drove
Seamus up the hill. I tried to remember the last
time I had talked to my dad about anything of real
importance. And I couldn’t remember.
“Dad, I forgot my ball down on the
beach,” Seamus mumbled, as we pulled into the
driveway. “I’m really sorry.”
I fought off the impulse to snap.
“It’s okay. We’ll go looking for it
on the way out of town,” I said.
“Hopefully, the neighborhood kids didn’t
take it. That was a really nice leather
ball.”
***
With Seamus’s bags finally packed, it was
time to head to LAX. He wasn’t looking forward
to going home, back to school and the cold, but at
least he could focus on and look forward to the
NCAA tournament. Just before leaving, Seamus and I
sat down at the computer one last time and logged
into my Yahoo account. I had agreed to let him
enter one set of brackets into a pool run by an
investment banking buddy. The entry fee was $100,
with the winner taking home a few thousand bucks. I
had agreed to front him the money on the condition
that half of any winnings would go to charity.
Seamus pulled up the pool. The sweet sixteen would
start today and his entry was currently in fifth
place.
“That’s it, dad. That’s the
winning bracket right there! Boston College is
going to go all the way this year!”
“I sure hope so,” I said, looking at
my watch. “We gotta get going now. We miss
this flight, we’re both in big trouble. And we
gotta find that lost ball down on the
beach.”
We had both become accustomed to goodbyes. As
father and son, we had long ago reached a male
understanding that a certain amount of emotion was
a good thing. Too much was bad—very bad, in
fact. The ease of being together could easily turn
ugly if the pain of our situation was spoken out
loud. We didn’t live together and never would.
This was as good as it was going to get. We both
knew this, but never wanted to say it out
loud—as if the silence would somehow diminish
the hurt.
“There it is!” Seamus shouted when we
pulled into the lot on the beach. “Those guys
are playing with my ball.” A full-court game
was in progress, shirts and skins, with high school
aged kids running hard; one bent over catching his
breath while a foul call was hotly disputed. Rubber
basketballs had been strewn at half court in favor
of the leather Spalding ball.
“Stay here,” I told Seamus, wanting to
make sure that the extraction was quick and
easy.
“Guys,” I said, as I approached the
court, my 6’3” frame puffed out just
slightly to make sure my words were not ignored.
“The ball is mine. Sorry.”
The reaction was immediate—leather flying
into my hands. “Thanks,” I muttered,
before getting back into the car and handing Seamus
the lost ball.
As we drove to the airport, I spoke brightly
about the tournament and about Seamus’s
sixth-grade team, attempting in vain to fill the
void just ahead. I was, in fact, unable to fight
off the impending storm cloud. I was sinking;
missing my son before he had even left.
I checked Seamus in at First Class. By now, I
knew the questions on the unaccompanied minor form
by heart. I carefully placed Seamus’s ticket
into a clear plastic pouch held in place by a
string around his neck.
“How come I always feel like a jackass with
this thing on, dad? How am I supposed to pick up
chicks on the plane?” Seamus asked with a wry
smile.
“If the loser badge keeps the girls away
for a few more years, that’d be just fine by
me,” I said with a smile.
At the gate, I looked into my son’s eyes.
We had waited until everyone else got on the plane
before Seamus boarded. But the time had come.
“I love you Seamus,” I said, giving
him a bear hug. I felt how my little baby boy had
become almost a man; substantial now where before
he had been so tiny and fragile. I noticed
Seamus’s stuffed dog, Pal, sticking out of his
backpack. Maybe he’s not all grown up just
yet, I thought. For a moment, I flashed back to all
the times I’d scoured my apartment to make
sure that Pal had not been lost. I held onto those
memories, and to Pal, as tightly as I held my son
at this point.
“I love you too, dad,” Seamus said,
holding on a few moments longer than usual.
“I’ll text you as soon as I hit the
ground at Logan.” Then he turned and walked
down the jetway with one of the flight attendants.
He wore leather Reef flip flops, baggy black cord
shorts that reached down to his shins, and a
mustard Volcom sweatshirt. Except for the
basketball under his arm, he was pure surfer dude.
I hadn’t had the heart to force him to change
into clothes for the snowy weather predicted back
east. He turned one last time to pound his chest
and flash a peace sign at me, his dad, sticking two
fingers in the air with a weak smile. I did the
same. Then my son was gone.
***
Driving home from LAX, I had to again remind
myself why going back to court to get equal time
with my kids would be a bad idea for Seamus and his
sister Kerry; why at this point I would lose; and
why just loving my kids, despite the heartache of
long periods of separation, was the best thing I
could do. I had been kicked out of the house when
Seamus was less than a year old and Kerry was just
two. Despite taking a large company public, then
selling it for billions, I had been a drunk and in
no position to demand joint physical custody.
In the years since, I had devoted myself to
becoming a decent father but had repeatedly sought
legal advice regarding the way my time with my kids
was doled out by my ex-wife Colleen; only to be
told that changing a custody arrangement after
years of precedents would require proving that it
was in the best interests of the children. I had
never had the courage to call Colleen on her bluff
that I was a bad father and not worthy of equal
custody. The arrangement ate away at me, but I
hadn’t been willing to reopen the wound.
Whether that was to protect the kids or to protect
myself, I wasn’t sure.
In the car on the way back to Laguna Beach, I
felt, along with a growing sense of loss, at least
a tiny sense of relief. The visit had gone well. I
always worried that Seamus would be bored or would
decide he was too old to be hanging around with his
dad on vacation. We had hit some amusement parks,
shot hoops, eaten great food, sat in the sun, and
talked. It had been fun and relaxed. I was happy to
have the mission accomplished.
***
Elena, Cole, and I went to the playground. I
climbed a huge rocket ship with my son and sat him
on my lap to blast down a long slide, landing in
the sand at the bottom, both of us laughing. Elena
and I held hands on the way home; we were both tall
and slender with blond hair. Cole urged us on from
the stroller as we pushed him up the hill.
“Faster daddy, faster!” Like Seamus, he
had his dad’s hair. But he had his mom’s
bright blue eyes.
***
I thought about another day at the playground.
It was Father’s Day, when Seamus had been just
three months old—one of the last times we had
been together before the end. That day, I had a
plane to catch—a private jet actually—as
I was taking my company public and needed to be in
London that night for a presentation. A black
limousine awaited us outside the front of the house
that Colleen and I had just built on a cul-de-sac
in Barrington, Rhode Island. As I left, a bag
containing my blue suit, white shirt, and a red tie
slung over my shoulder, Colleen had ripped into me
for being a shitty father. I had not responded.
I’d just kept my head down as her words made
their way into my heart; daggers with truth serum
intended to inflict pain.
***
Back at the house, I finally sat down at the
computer and pulled up the American Airlines
website. Flight number 159 had just taken off for
Boston. Seamus was in the air. I noticed that, at
the top of the website, the airline was reporting
delays in New York and Philadelphia, but
didn’t think much of it. I went back to the TV
room to watch The Backyardigans with Cole, who
snuggled into my neck and quickly fell asleep. I
thought about the first time I’d had Seamus
overnight at my apartment; how, in a certain sense,
I had been lost myself until I’d held my son
in my arms, fed him a bottle, and inhaled the smell
of him. That’s when I knew that being a dad
was the thing I most wanted in the world; the thing
that I had missed for all the deal making. By the
time Elena came to check on us, we were both
snoring.
***
I awoke with a start. The sunlight outside was
already beginning to fade. My Blackberry buzzed
with a new voice message. It was Colleen. I hit the
voicemail button and listened.
“It’s snowing really hard here,”
she started. “I know the flight took off so
they must have thought it was going to be okay. But
I just got off the phone with Logan and they are
already down to one runway and his flight
doesn’t get in for another hour and a half.
I’m really worried about Seamus. Call me or
email me.” Click. She had hung up abruptly, as
always. But the message was troubling, even with a
hefty Colleen-hysteria discount factored in.
At the computer, I pulled up the map of the
United States on the American Airlines site. Flight
159 was a little dot hovering around Buffalo in
western New York. When I moved the cursor to the
dot and right-clicked the mouse, the flight
information popped up: “Estimated time of
arrival Logan Airport: 9:53 p.m.” I looked at
my watch. It was just past six, west coast time, so
he should be landing in forty-five minutes. I
decided against returning Colleen’s call.
Email was always better when dealing with an angry
or scared ex-wife, even in a crisis. I typed a
message on my Blackberry, saying that American
Airlines had Seamus landing shortly, even though
his flight was now over an hour delayed.
Thirty seconds later, Colleen replied, “HE
HAS BEEN CIRCLING LOGAN FOR THE LAST HOUR. THE
PLANE IS NEAR BUFFALO TO AVOID THE STORM UNTIL THEY
CAN CLEAR THE RUNWAY. THIS AIRPORT IS SHUT DOWN
COMPLETELY. EVEN THE SECURITY GUYS HAVE GONE
HOME.”
That didn’t sound good. I looked out at the
beautiful sunset over the Pacific Ocean. Our
rental, with its expansive view, sat up high on the
hill, just behind the Pacific Coast Highway. From
our bed, Elena and I watched the lights of tankers
passing miles offshore from one horizon to the
other. Why anyone would ever leave this for snow,
ice, and bitter cold wind was beyond me. I tried to
remain calm as I picked up the landline to call the
after-hours service at American Express Travel. I
knew that trying to get through to American
Airlines directly would be useless. The website was
the best I was going to do as far as communicating
with the airline.
“This is Jeremy at American Express
emergency services. How can I help you
tonight?”
“Look, I have a problem,” I said,
trying to sound calm. “My son, Seamus Matlack,
is on American flight 159 to Boston. He’s a
minor. I am really worried about him. I’m
wondering if they’re going to land.”
“That’s no fun. What a way to end
spring break, huh? Let’s see what I can find
out for you.”
“I’m sure he’ll be okay.
He’s my oldest son.”
“I understand. Says here that his plane is
headed for Hartford. The storm has passed through
there already. Logan won’t be open until the
morning.”
“Shit!” I said, forgetting
momentarily—or perhaps no longer
caring—that I was speaking to the customer
service rep and not an old school friend in a bar,
“Do ya think his mom can pick him up
there?”
“If she can get through. Otherwise the
airline will supervise him overnight; get him back
to Boston first thing in the morning.”
“His mother isn’t going to let him
stay by himself with strangers,” I said.
“Happens all the time, Mr. Matlack. Your
son’s going to be fine.”
“He’s probably scared shitless, but
let’s hope you’re right. Thanks,” I
said, before hanging up.
I emailed Colleen, “FLIGHT HAS BEEN
DIVERTED TO HARTFORD. YOU CAN TRY TO PICK HIM UP
THERE OR THEY WILL FLY HIM HOME FIRST THING IN THE
MORNING.” I hit ‘send’ and waited
for the shit storm to hit.
The response was terse and, thankfully, brief.
“IN CAR. ON WAY TO HARTFORD.”
I went back to the computer to refresh the
American Airlines screen. The dot came up over
Albany. When I clicked, it showed arrival in
Hartford in half an hour. I went out on the deck to
look at the ocean, trying to figure out what I
could possibly do 3,000 miles away from my son. I
took out my Blackberry and decided to leave him a
message so that he would call as soon as he
landed.
I got his voicemail. “This is Seamus.
Please leave me a message.”
“Seamus, it’s dad. I know your flight
has been diverted to Hartford. Your mom’s on
her way. She will get there as soon as she can.
Call me when you can. Sorry for the hassle, but
this will be fine. Love ya. Peace out, dude.”
I clicked the phone off, then texted him as well,
“SEAMUS. YOUR MOM IS ON HER WAY. CALL ME.
DAD.”
I went back inside to watch the basketball
tournament and to try to take my mind off my son.
Twenty minutes later, my Blackberry was beeping
again. I was hoping it was Seamus, but it was
Colleen. “Shit!” I muttered to myself.
Her message read, “STATE POLICE STOPPED ME ON
MASS PIKE. ROAD CLOSED. HAVE TO TURN AROUND. HAVE
YOU TALKED TO SEAMUS? HIS PLANE SHOULD HAVE LANDED
BY NOW.”
I hit redial on my Blackberry and again got
voicemail, “This is Seamus…”
“FUCK!” I shouted, slamming the phone
down. For the first time, panic set in. How could I
let this happen? Why the fuck hadn’t I checked
the weather before putting my son on that plane? He
had to be scared by now. Why wasn’t he
answering his damn phone?
I went back to the computer and clicked
‘refresh.’ The dot settled on Hartford. I
clicked again. The computer blinked at me,
“LANDED.”
***
I furiously typed yet another message on my
Blackberry, “CALL ME!” I went back
outside to look at the Pacific Ocean and to try to
talk myself down. Seamus is not dead. He’s not
even sick. The airline is responsible for his
safety and even though they can’t get most
flights to arrive on time, this is different. They
take this shit seriously. The crew members on that
plane must be parents too. They must know what
it’s like to have your kid stranded somewhere
you can’t reach him.
I went back inside and hit redial again.
“This is Seamus…”
My Blackberry rang. It was Colleen. I had to
pick it up now. “What do you know?” she
blurted out.
“Nothing. I haven’t been able to talk
to him yet. His plane’s on the ground but he
is probably just getting his luggage. This is all
going to be fine, Colleen. He’ll be home in no
time,” I said, trying desperately to maintain
an even tone.
“I can barely see the road. Call me when
you hear anything,” Colleen said before
hanging up.
I went back outside on the deck and paced; then
went back inside and tried to watch a tournament
game that had gone into overtime. I tried to get
involved in the game. I actually went back to the
computer to check who Seamus had in his bracket.
The phone rang.
I ran to the kitchen to pick it up. “Hey
pops, you see that finish?” Seamus asked.
“Man, am I glad to hear your voice,
Seamus!” I said, letting go of the pocket of
air that had been buried deep in my chest all
afternoon.
“No big deal, dad. They set us up at a
Holiday Inn. This stewardess Annie is in the next
room. She just bought me a cheeseburger, fries, and
a chocolate milkshake. Getting ready for the Boston
College tip-off. They’re going to
dominate,” Seamus said.
“You’re too much, kid. Is this Annie
treating you okay?”
“Definitely. You wanna talk to her?”
Seamus replied.
“Please.”
“Here she is,” Seamus said. There was
shuffling on the phone. A woman’s voice
eventually came on.
“This is Annie. You have one special boy
here, Mr. Matlack. He kept the whole crew
entertained at baggage claim with his Harlem
Globetrotters routine.”
“Annie, I don’t know how to thank you
enough for taking such good care of my son,” I
said.
“Don’t mention it. I’m a divorced
parent too. I would want the same for my little
girl if she got stuck somewhere. Besides, your son
never panicked. He kept telling us all what a great
adventure this was, when we were getting ready to
poke our own eyes out with the delays.”
“Well, thanks. Can I talk to him
again?”
Seamus came back on the phone and spoke in a
whisper. “Dad, Annie is kind of hot.”
“Son, she sounds about twenty years older
than you. Be thankful she’s takin’ such
good care of you and don’t get fresh with
her!” I said, in mock anger.
“I was just kidding, dad. I’ll give
you a call after the Boston College game. We can
watch it together on text. Let me know what you
think along the way. Okay?”
“Okay. Peace out. Love ya, son.”
“Love ya too, dad.”
I then went into the TV room, turned the
television off, and sat in the dark. After a few
moments, I emailed Colleen. “TALKED TO SEAMUS.
A-OK.”
The next morning, Cole woke us up early but
Elena let me sleep. Boston College had won in a
blowout. Seamus had called midway through the
second half to announce the game officially over.
At 10:30 in the morning, my Blackberry was buzzing
again. It was an email from Colleen: “SEAMUS
HOME.”
***
“There’s one!” Seamus shouted,
pointing into the pool of salt water under the rock
he had just flipped over. Cole’s little
fingers grasped for the tiny hermit crab as it
scurried across the sand. He caught it and placed
it gently in a yellow plastic bucket, joining a
dozen others.
Elena and I lounged on the beach nearby,
watching the boys and holding hands. Sailboats
dotted the Atlantic Ocean. Down the beach, we could
see the house that we had built sitting high up on
a bluff just over the Massachusetts and Rhode
Island border. As a girl, Elena had come to
Westport Harbor for the first time with her family.
Twenty-five years later, she had convinced me to
come back to rent. All her childhood friends were
still there. It had become a cocoon in our lives; a
home and a respite from the stormy weather.
Seamus and I swam out to a massive rock shaped
like an elephant, a few hundred yards out in the
ocean. For generations, kids had jumped off the
head, shoulder, and rump of the elephant, then
pulled themselves up and across barnacles to lay on
the rock and warm up.
“Dad, I can’t believe we won four
hundred bucks for our bracket. That was cool.”
Seamus had finished second, only a loss in the
final separating him from the grand prize. At
Elena’s suggestion we had all gone to Boston
Medical Center and used half the money to buy car
seats for homeless moms.
“Yeah, next year we’re going all the
way,” I said, getting up. I ran off the rock
and plunged thirty feet into the cold, green water,
coming back to the surface just in time to see my
son follow my lead.
©2011, Tom
Matlack
* * *
While all complain of our ignorance and
error,
everyone exempts himself. - John Glanville
Tom Matlack,
"I am a sucker for real-life heroes, particularly
the ones that get overlooked. My profile work grew
from my first published piece, THE RACE, which
describes my own life altering experience in an
athletic event barely worthy of the local paper.
Coaches and athletes in the sport of rowing were my
initial focus before expanding to mainstream sports
like professional basketball. Music, film, and
television have proven fertile ground for heroic
journeys of a different, but related, kind.
Finally, I have continued to write bits and pieces
of my own story in an attempt to inspire and
enlighten."
Thomas Matlack was Chief
Financial Officer of The Providence Journal until
1997. He was the lead investor in Art Technology
Group, which reached $5 billion in market
capitalization in 2001. He founded and ran his own
venture firm, started companies like American
Profile (sold to Disney for $260 million) and
Telephia (sold to Neilson for $560 million), before
turning to writing. His work has appeared in
Rowing News, Boston Common, Boston
Magazine, Boston Globe Magazine and
Newspaper, Wesleyan, Yale,
Tango, and Pop Matters.
In 2008, Matlack founded
www.TheGoodManProject.org,
with his venture capital partner James Houghton. He
has appeared on national and local television and
radio as well as print across the country. The fall
of 2009, Matlack led a non-conventional book tour
for The
Good Men Project that
started inside Sing Sing and ended in Hollywood
with a screening of THE GOOD MEN PROJECT
documentary film followed by a panel discussion
including Matt Weiner and Shepard
Fairey.
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