The gruff voice, the vanilla flavored cigar smoke, the laugh always resulting in a hacking cough; these were the distinct memories of my grandfather. Perhaps what best described him was the vanilla flavor, plain and simple, exactly how he lived his life and interacted with everyone. I guess being born during a time of war will harden anyone's emotions but was a joke, a giggle or a smile really that hard to ask for? And this was all before the cancer hit, attaching itself to his left like a lion to its prey. No matter how strong and sturdy he may have acted, this was not a battle he was going to win by his stern look or the raising of his voice.
No matter how well I did in school or how many sports teams I captained, he never once acknowledged my accomplishments. The one true thing in which he showed compassion for was football.
"There's nothing like giving up your heart and soul on every play and then to get right back up and in it again," he once told me. This was perhaps the sole reason why I tried out my junior year, making the team and eventually winning Most Valuable Player honors. Once again I received little recognition from him.
The severity of the cancer grew by the day, and the already violent cough turned into a gut wrenching ordeal that lasted minutes on end. I developed a deep sense of pity towards him although showing anything of the sort to his face was met with a swift "whatcha looking at kid?" ".
As his days dwindled down my visits to the hospital increased, many times not even seeing him, merely to help my grandmother cope or drive other family members. His body mass dwindled as well, strong sturdy muscles giving way to useless fat and eventually skin and bones. He was now but a fragment of himself.
Football, the one thing we shared, the one bond we had, was nearing the completion of its season. Thus the Super Bowl was upon us, an event my grandfather hadn't missed in his lifetime.
