Michael Schumacher, My Father & I

Father

It’s two years since my Dad passed away, after nearly a 40 year on/off battle with cancer. I’ve been contemplating putting my thoughts into words for quite awhile, but until now, I haven’t been quite able to.

I’ve never been the greatest verbal communicator. For some reason I’m never quite able to find the right combination of words quick enough for my mouth to spit them out (my brother, an English teacher, once said this is a sign of intelligence, although I’m not so sure about that). I’ve always managed to portray my message better through the written word, an attribute not missed by my Father. He would often stumble across a piece I’d scribbled lying around my room, read it, and be taken aback. A resignation letter I’d once written being one such example. He read it, and praised it for its kind, eloquent use of words (which must have been true, as it made my manager quite emotional).

I never to take praise well, I generally brush it off as politeness, due in most part to low self belief. If there’s one person’s opinion I’ve always held in high regard however, it’s my Dad’s. He was never a man to mince his words, and was well known for his, often brutal, honesty. So, to finally take his words of encouragement on board, I’ve began writing things down, even if it’s just as a form of personal escapism. So, this piece is about the two idols in my life who I’ve looked up to since I were young.

The last time my Father and I spent time together, was when he brought me to the airport on the morning I was emigrating to Canada. He hadn’t been too well in the weeks running up to this, with, what we thought at the time was a heavy chest infection mixed with the possibility of an arthritic hip. Both these ailments would later turn out to be misdiagnosed, and unfortunately, much more severe. Whether he knew this at the time, I’ll never know for sure, but I have sneaking suspicion he did, but I’ll come back to that in a moment.

On the drive to the airport, I did most of the talking, muttering on about the things I would miss about Ireland. Guinness mostly (sorry for the cliche, I know). When we arrived at the airport, we parked up and he tried to do the fatherly thing and carry my case to the terminal, but knowing he’d struggled to walk around a park in recent weeks, I didn’t allow it. I think my actions may have dented his stern pride, but with the gravitas of the occasion, we didn’t dwell on it.

When we arrived at the terminal, we did what all Irish people do, and had a cup of tea. We sat face to face at our chosen cafe; and over my Father’s shoulder there was a TV showing the obligatory 24/7 rolling news station. Poignantly, they were reporting on the condition of former Formula 1 driver, Michael Schumacher, who had suffered a severe head injury skiing just days earlier (which he, sadly, still hasn’t recovered from. #KeepFightingMichael). Anyone who knows me, will attest to how much of a Formula 1 fanatic I am; and that Michael Schumacher has been my idol since I was knee high to a duck.

This was an obsession not missed by my Father, who himself couldn’t have cared less for the sport, but for years valiantly encouraged my hobby, bringing me to endless shows and events and spending stupid amounts of money on scale models and memorabilia. The peak of this devotion came in April 2000, a day we both began to reflect on after watching the rolling report going on behind us.

My fondest memory:

At the end of 1999, my Father’s cancer had returned. Pretty aggressive this time. It hit us all pretty hard as a family, and the next few months were difficult to say the least. He was operated on, and afterward, in the early months of 2000, went through an aggressive bout of chemotherapy.

The story I’m about to tell, I tried to tell at his funeral, but the emotion overcame me and I couldn’t quite get the words out. So here it is written down. The 2000 Formula 1 season couldn’t have started better. Michael Schumacher, in his Ferrari, had just pulled off a hat-trick of victories in the opening 3 rounds of the season, the best start to a year the pairing had had since he had joined the Scuderia in 1996. This was a welcomed joy to me at the age of 13, during a period of time when real life was being all too real.

The Tuesday morning after the third of these said victories at the San Marino Grand Prix, my Father had managed to acquire two tickets to an Alfa Romeo exhibition from a colleague of his in the Dublin Fire Brigade that was being held at the RDS in Dublin. Now at this point, my Father was deep, deep into his chemotherapy. His hair had completely fallen out, he was bloated and his immune system was shot. He insisted however, on bringing me to this show.

He pulled me out of school for the day, something completely out of character, as he was a firm believer in “education comes first”. He was unable to drive at the time, so a family friend drove us out, dropped us off, and told us to call when we were ready to leave. My father was wrapped up in several layers to fend of the cold of an Irish Spring afternoon and had donned his wax hat to cover his hairless head (a man of self admitted vanity, a trait that I must admit I have inherited). I was unsuitably dressed for the weather as always, but I was wearing my Michael Schumacher cap, which was permanently stuck to my head at the time, especially with the current success Schumacher was having.

As we walked towards the entrance, we were swiftly stopped by security.

“Sorry guys, the show isn’t open to the public today” the security guard said firmly.

“What, why?” my Father replied sternly, taking into account all the trouble he had gone through to make all this happen.

The security guard responded; “There’s a private viewing for a VIP, I do apologise, it was a last minute decision” he said to my Father, yet looking at me as he spoke with a somewhat quizzical look on his face.

Before my father had a chance to return, his understandable anger, the security guard took us aside.

“Look, the VIP I speak of, it’s Michael Schumacher. It’s not public knowledge, so I please ask of you to keep it to yourselves.” Having obviously spotted my head-wear, he went on to say “If you hang around, you might get a chance to see him”.

I looked at my Father, taking into account his condition. No words were exchanged, we just perched ourselves against a fence, my Father thanking the security guard and promising our discretion.

As time passed, painfully slowly, a crowd of people gradually started gathering, all donning Ferrari apparel. “Damn”, I thought, “someone’s let the cat out of the bag”. It was at this point the security guard came back over to my Father and I. We feared he was thinking that we were the culprits of leaking this confidential information, and he was going to give us a proper dressing down, but no.

“Look, with this crowd after gathering, they’ve decided to bring Michael in through the south-side entrance, you’ve got about 4 minutes”.

Reading between the lines, my Father looked at me and said “We can make it if we run”. He shouldn’t have been running in his state, but it was a testament to how much he cared for the passions of his children. I probably would have cried, but there wasn’t time.

We reached the south entrance minutes later and as we stopped to catch our breath, a cavalcade of Garda motorcycles pulled up, followed by 2 Alfa Romeo 166s, which pulled up right beside my Father and I. From the first of the two cars, the driver opened the rear door, and out stepped Michael Schumacher.

Standing there starstruck, without a second to think, my Father pushed me forward and yelled out “MICHAEL”. Schumacher turned, saw me, shook my hand, gave me the classic Schumacher wink and said “Nice hat”.

Before I had time to register what had just happened, Michael was ushered inside. I turned to my Father, looked at him, and then suddenly the emotion of the whole event hit me like a tonne of bricks. I just started crying. We threw our arms around each other, and he uttered out, “I hope those are tears of joy Buddy Boy”.

We walked back around to the entrance we had been originally waiting at, both wearing smiles that probably could have been seen from space. We wanted to thank the security guard for his kindness, but before we had a chance to say anything, he spoke first.

“I assume you caught him then?! Do you have a fiver on you?” A brazen way of asking for a tip we thought, but deserved none the less, so my Father didn’t hesitate to reach into his pocket and pull out a tenner and gladly hand it to the gentleman.

We spent the next half hour waiting to see if we would get to see Michael leaving. The vehicles that had dropped him off, were now around at this entrance. It was at this point that our security-guard friend came back over to us. As he handed us a disposable camera (these were the days before camera phones), “A few snaps of the man himself on there for you, oh and here’s your change” which my Father insisted he keep.

We couldn’t thank this man enough. It was the epitome of the kindness of strangers. He had acknowledged my fandom from my attire, my Father’s weakened appearance and decided to use his powers for an unforgettable good.

The following day, my Father, remembering the name of the security company from the gentleman’s jacket, looked them up in the yellow pages (again internet was only a burgeoning technology at the time) and passed on our gratitude to the security guard had bestowed such kindness upon us.

The photos from that disposable camera are still in a drawer in my bedroom. I didn’t get a photo with the man himself, nor did I get an autograph, but I like it that way. It’s a moment in time, a memory, that only my Father and I shared.

I’ll never forget the effort my Father went through that day, just for me. He loved his family, and we always came first. This occasion being a perfect example of that affection.

So, back to where I started:

After lamenting back on that day, which had come to the forefront of our minds due to the tragedy that was unfolding about Schumacher, the emotion of the occasion between Father and son began to creep in.

My Father was about to see me leave home for the first time, little did I know this would be the last time I would see him alive. We finished our respected cups of tea, to wash away the lumps that were forming in our throats, and we prepared to say our Goodbyes, a goodbye that would, in hindsight, have more weight to it than I knew at the time.

My father walked me as far as security (security seems to be where we shared a lot of memories) and we hugged, harder even than we did on that day in Spring 2000. I told him I loved him, he replied the same. I cried, (which was inevitable, I cry at movies) but so did my he, and he was never one to openly show his emotions. It was at this moment that I felt my Father knew he was sicker than he had let on.

Boarding that plane was the most difficult thing I have ever done. I knew all was not well. Thankfully I had my best friend with me, who I met at our departure gate. I was at least able to express my feelings with him, and, as he always has been able to do, improved my mood.

I was in Canada just a couple of months when I finally got the call to say my Father’s cancer had returned. Lung cancer, not a chest infection, that had spread to his bones, not arthritis.

The next few weeks were spent awaiting updates. During this time I remembered back to a disagreement we had had 18 months earlier. Its a story I won’t get into now or i’ll be writing this piece for days, but as much as I hate to admit it, I was the one who was in the wrong. We didn’t speak for 6 weeks.

Thankfully, my straight thinking and sensible sister told me to go, tail between my legs and apologise. I’m so glad I did. The regret I would feel now had we not reconciled would probably be too hard to get over. No matter how bad a disagreement is, big or small, it should never get between loved ones, your time together is too precious.

The last time my Father and I spoke was via Skype, two weeks before he passed away. He told me he was proud of me, and I told him it was he I had to thank for that. Neither of us knew it was the last time we’d speak (and how I wish it weren’t) yet the words were poignant enough for my last memory to be of love and admiration.

It’s been a tough time, I’ve gone through highs and lows coming to terms with our loss, but as time has passed I look back on the memories of my Father, not as a mourning of his death, but as a celebration of his life. I would do anything to have him back, but it’s all too easily to fall into the mindset of what could have been, rather than what we’ve been lucky to have.

My father lived 30 years longer than he ever thought he would. Sure, he had a tough time of it, he was dealt a pretty shitty hand, but these were balanced by greater times. He saw two beautiful grandchildren who he adored and he had the honour that every Father wishes for, to walk his daughter down the aisle.

As much as it’s a terrible, hateful disease, had it not returned to him back in 1999, I don’t think he would have embraced his last 14 years of life the way he did. For a man who’d never set foot on a plane, he went on over 20 holidays, visiting places of beauty that until then, to him, had been reserved to print and picture.

My father was and still is, the strongest, most intelligent loving man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. His biggest fear was being forgotten, I’m happy to say, his fear will never become a reality. x

Q