Dad.

To say that I've been thinking about you a lot is silly. I have to work constantly to keep my brain from connecting to the pain that radiates inside my heart.

Remember my tennis matches all throughout high school? Of course you do; you went to every single one. Remember how I used to say I was so embarrassed because all you ever wore to the matches (and anywhere else, really) were your fishing t-shirts with silly sayings, cut-off sweats made into shorts, and those grocery store flip flops? Well, I was embarrassed. What can I say? I'd give anything to see you, just being yourself, in those hideous cut-off sweats now.

I want to tell you something, though. Oh, it's just one of about a million things I'll want to tell you in my lifetime and will never be able to, but tonight I can't sleep without getting this out. And I need to sleep.

When you'd come to my tennis matches, you were always the loudest, craziest parent in the stands, whooping like you were at the Super Bowl. And every good shot I made - every aced serve, every unreachable lob, every spiked volley - you punctuated with a loud and very skater-dudeish "Right on! Right on, Boonz!" I'd say, "Dad! STOP saying 'Right on!' Just be normal! BE NORMAL!", and act like I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me to save me the humiliation of having a nutty father. But that's what it was, Dad - an act. I secretly loved it that you were loud and crazy and completely unchecked in showing your obvious pride in your daughter. I so want to make you proud again, Dad, and I worry that I'm failing. I loved it that you didn't care what anybody else thought of you, or what you looked like. You were just a Dad supporting his kid, and everyone else could suck it. Even during that one match my junior year when the teammates of the girl I was playing against started going, "Yeah, right on, Boonz!" and laughing, more at you than at me, and trying their best to distract me enough so I'd lose. Instead, that match got me to State, and you out-shouted even the loudest prick on that team. Oh sure, I acted embarrassed, but inside I was thinking, "Well, where the hell are your parents? I don't see them out here cheering for you idiots. I'd take my dad over your country-club jackass Mummie and Daddie any day of the week! Hell, YEAH, it's right on; my dad got me to STATE, PUNKS!!"

Anyway, I just wanted you to know that. I was so proud that the crazy, loud, balding man with the somewhat foul mouth when necessary was my dad.

And I AM proud. And I miss you so much that I can barely swallow air.

And I so desperately, desperately need a "Right on."