Memories of my Father

By Pat (DiLernia) Carey
Wed, 2 Jul 2003

     I just read the article about Bocce in the "Get Out" column of Sunday's Washington Post and was reminded of times of my childhood. My Dad grew up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, lived in Brooklyn, and eventually moved to Hicksville, Long Island, New York. He loved the game, had a unique style and many different "pitches." For such a strong and masculine man, a blue-collar worker, he was surprisingly graceful on the Bocce court. His moves were like dance steps.

     Dad tried to teach me how to improve my aim, spin the ball, pitch underhanded, and so much more. Unfortunately I wasn't as skilled as he, but enjoyed the game and time with my father anyway, There wasn't a picnic or a family visit that didn't include a Bocce game. And Dad was always ready to take on new players with a chuckle and a smile. I believe he knew he would eventually win.

     I also recall the arguments that ensued when balls ended up so close to the pallino that only an act-of-God could determine the winner! Especially when there was no tape measure - just an old piece of string - to mark the distance.

     So I just had to write to say thanks. It's nice to know that somewhere another daughter is watching her father play Bocce and making memories for the future.

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