Irv
On July 19th, the Kent family is going to bury my grandpa's ashes. Irving Marshak—Irv—died back in December, but we waited until now to officially say goodbye. It got me thinking about our relationship and how much influence he had on me. In no particular order, here are some of my favorite stories about him.
Irv was born on August 9th, 1922 and died on December 9th, 2018—on my wife Jacque's 39th birthday. My mother, Juli, was Irv's daughter. He was 96 years-old when he passed. I was with him in the room at Edward's Hospital when he took his last breath; we were watching the Bears/Rams game on Sunday Night Football. A proud World War II veteran, he routinely said that we didn't go to war with Japan to buy their cars, learn their martial arts, or do their number puzzles (he was referencing sudoku). Irv was an American-car-buying-team-sports-watching-crossword-puzzle-kind-of-guy. In fact, the day before he passed, I had earned my judo black belt after 11 years of training.
Irv never understood my interest in martial arts; he had competed in Golden Gloves boxing. As Irv lay in his hospital bed, completely unconscious and covered in tubes, I recapped Jacque's birthday weekend to him, including news about my new black belt. It was our final conversation, as he died immediately thereafter. Oh great, I thought, my judo black belt was the final straw that killed Irv.
I'm lucky, I know that. My grandfather was a huge part of my life for 39 years and was the best man in my wedding. I knew him way longer than most kids get to know their grandparents. My daughter, Raleigh, got to know her great-grandfather (Ga Ga) for 5 years. She will always remember him, which is important to me.
It's been said that I was his favorite grandchild and he always put in a strong effort for me. Irv battled traffic and came to every Little League baseball game, every Pee Wee football game, every YMCA basketball game, every high school football and baseball game, and every college summer baseball game. Famously, he came to a "Hawk Hitter" in Iowa City; the Friday night scrimmage between redshirting freshman. Unable to find suitable parking around the football complex, Irv parked in the only open space: Reserved for Head Coach Hayden Fry. Coach Fry was late to practice that Friday, and grumbled about some asshole that had parked a Buick LeSabre with Illinois license plates in his spot. Irv came back to Iowa City for the 1998 spring football game, dressed in a tomato-red matching sweatsuit, but left before I caught a pass. (He was too hot.) He came to my baseball games in Gary, IN and came to White Sox spring training in Tucson, AZ. I'm lucky, I know that.
In his lifetime, Irv... was born in the Roaring Twenties and lived through the Great Depression; worked for a bootlegger under Al Capone; did not graduate from high school; was an Air Force pilot during WWII; made his living as an auto-bodyshop repair man and eventual silent business partner; endured the Lake Michigan drowning death of his young son, Michael, in 1953; put his four kids through college (John, Bill, Juli, and Pam); buried his second-oldest son, Bill, in 2009; was married and divorced to both my grandmother Toni, who passed away in 2002, and years later, Joyce; and had to endure the Cubs winning the World Series in 2016.
Irv was born and raised on Chicago’s South Side, and he loved the White Sox. He also hated the Cubs—and was quite vocal about it—including, but not limited to: Ryne Sandberg, Sammy Sosa, Carlos Zambrano, and announcer Jack Brickhouse. When I was a kid, he would call me every time Ryno struck out—just to verbally rub it in my face. He hated Slammin' Sammy skipping out of the batter's box on home runs, and his chest-tapping signals to the WGN dugout camera. He thought Big Z was overrated; too fat and too emotional to be an elite pitcher. Irv was the type of White Sox fan that, in his later years, preferred to watch the Cubs lose than watch the White Sox win. He relished in cheering against the Cubs. In fact, at Thanksgiving 2016, a few weeks after the North Siders ended their curse, I asked him if he ever thought he would see the Cubbies win a World Series in his lifetime. Without taking a break from his turkey, Irv said, “The American League was weak this year.” His DNA simply would not allow him to complement the Cubs, under any circumstances.
Irv's hatred of the Cubs ran deep. According to family lore—which for me, traveled from Irv's mouth to my ears—when he was 16 years-old Irv and his brother Jack borrowed the family car and drove up to Wrigley Field for a Cubs tryout. Irv was a catcher and according to him, a "hell of a ballplayer." The problem for Irv was that the Cubs already had Gabby Hartnett. Hartnett was ensconced as their starting catcher from 1922-1940 before being elected to the Hall of Fame in 1955; one of the best catchers in baseball history. The Cubs did not need a catcher, but they did need a right fielder. Irv said the Cubs asked him to play right field. Stubborn as a mule, Irv confidently replied that he's a catcher and doesn't play right field, so he and Jack drove home. "To hell with them," was his usual reply. Sports would usually bring out his more colorful language.
The first time I remember really hearing the F-word was in the Indian Boundary YMCA parking lot, on 59th Street in Downers Grove. Some driver, likely also hustling to their youth basketball game, had just cut off Irv and taken his parking spot. He yelled--with a very short distance separating the other car from his Chevy Caprice Classic—"What the fuck!" It wasn't a question, more of a proclamation. I didn't know what Irv was saying, but I knew he was mad. Joyce, his second wife, tried to calm him down. I was probably 8 years-old at the time. Irv tried to explain that since he had been in the military, he often used "bad words" and that it wasn't his fault he used "bad words." During Little League, with Irv seated behind the backstop, my dad had to constantly tell him to quit heckling and remind him that he was watching kids, not pro ballplayers. In our relationship, sports and swearing packed a powerful one-two punch.
Along with sports, Irv loved going out for a good meal, no matter the location. He liked taking Jacque and me to dinner, but we always had to drive to his house first, then ride with him in his car to the restaurant. (On a side note, Irv also loved his dogs—first Sir Thomas, then Thomassina; both labrador mutts. They would always ride in the front seat; Jacque and I would sit in the back.) Logistics be damned, we went to Al's Steakhouse in Joliet; the Palm Court in Arlington Heights; Sabatino's on Irving Park; Manny’s off Roosevelt; Venuti's (formerly in Villa Park but now) in Addison; and any Portillo's in the Chicagoland area. Irv was a proponent of consistency. He would always say, "you go to a restaurant because it's good all the time, not because it's good once in a while." This was a great life lesson and very Lombardi-esq: Cooking good food is not a sometime thing, it's an all-time thing. He also gave sound advice on liquor: "Have one less drink, but buy the good stuff, not that cheap shit." For him, that meant Crown Royal.
Actually, we had a falling out with Al's Steakhouse and Crown Royal was right in the middle of it. Many Easters ago, we had a brunch reservation at Al's. As a military man, Irv was always on time, probably 45 minutes early. He hated being late and often chastised me when I would stroll in at 5:04, not 5pm. I said there wasn't much difference between 5:00 and 5:04. Then try holding your breath for four minutes, Irv said. If our reservation was for noon, then goddamnit, we better be sitting down at noon. This particular Easter Sunday, Al's was running behind schedule. While they recognized that we had a reservation, the restaurant was packed and simply could not accommodate us. So, we had to wait. Irv hated waiting, and with each passing second, his anger became excruciatingly evident. Finally, they seated us—next to a table in the Smoking Section. A former smoker, Irv quit cold turkey back in 1967 and hated smoking ever since. He was usually animated about his displeasure with smoking, and today would be no different. He turned to the woman sitting behind him, and in less polite language, told her that if she did not extinguish the cigarette in her hand—immediately—he was going to "vomit all over her plate." Sensing an uncomfortable confrontation, Al's staff moved us to a different table, away from the smokers. The waiter, in an attempt to defuse the situation, asked Irv what drink he could bring him—on the house, of course. Irv asked for a shot of Crown Royal. When the beverage arrived, the glass was partially filled with Crown, but not all-the-way filled with Crown. "What is this, a shot for midgets?" Irv asked the waiter. And that was the last time we ever went to Al's Steakhouse.
There was one time during my freshman year at the University of Iowa, when Irv offered to drive me and my longtime friend, Frank Mitera, back to school. Frank lived in the neighborhood and only a few houses over, so it was easy for us to ride together. But, before hopping on the Stevenson (to take south to I-80 West), Irv wanted to stop at White Castles on 75th St. for some sliders to take on our road trip. Irv offered to get us food too, but we declined. So, with two 19 year-olds waiting in the back seat, and Sir Thomas in the front seat, Irv ran in to get his burgers. Now, Frank and I have different memories about the specifics of what pissed Irv off inside White Castle, but we can agree that he was in there for a long time. As previously mentioned, Irv hated waiting. When he arrived back at the car, grumbling about the service and wait time, he opened his White Castle bag to find that his sliders had no onions. He had ordered extra onions, not no onions. So, Irv got out of his car and went back into White Castle to get in line for new burgers. Frank, Sir Thomas, and I probably waited close to an hour just for Irv to get his White Castles--we could have been a third of the way to Iowa City by then. Once we finally got moving, Frank and I fell asleep in the back seat (separately, not together) and when I woke up, our car was parked on the side of the expressway. Irv had decided to pull over and take a nap; Irv and Sir Thomas asleep in the front seat, Brian and Frank asleep in the back. Never mind the traffic that was whizzing past our parked car at 70 mph; the White Castles had made Irv sleepy. That was the first and last time Irv drove us to school.
For 39 years, I had a grandfather in my life. I'm lucky, I know that.