I have always been a fan of the Olympics — especially the Summer Games. The allure for me is a combination of the pageantry of the Opening and Closing ceremonies, the spirited competition and incredible athletic achievements, and the camaraderie among the athletes. I’ve never attended any Olympics, but since 2012, they have meant even a little bit more to me.
Because — in an offbeat way — they remind me of my dad.
It was September 2012, and he and I were on our way to Italy to visit relatives. The trip started on a beautiful blue-sky day in Syracuse, where we were to catch a flight to Philadelphia and then on to Rome. However, the plane from Philly was delayed because of bad weather there — you’ve had similar experiences, I’m sure. It eventually arrived, but we departed Syracuse late, and with a tight window in Philly, missed our overseas flight by 15 minutes.
(Why they couldn’t have held up that Rome flight by 15 minutes when they knew they had a dozen or so late connectors from Syracuse I’ll never quite understand, but you probably know that story too!)
We were rerouted through London and then to Rome, so after a 3½-hour layover in Philly we were on our way across the Atlantic to Europe. We arrived in England on time 6½ hours later and navigated our way through Heathrow Airport to find the gate for our flight to Italy.
Dad was cranky, though. Not only were we about 10 hours behind schedule, but he was wearing super-tight........