Father’s Day has its different traditions with every family. A round of golf, a box of cigars, or a terrible tie. For me, I receive a couple tasty lobsters from my wife and kids and get to “sleep in” until 8:30 a.m. (I know it’s not very late, but I got shit to do).
For me, one Father’s Day tradition, started a few years back, is publishing a fun-loving article based around my Dad’s bets – if my Dad did actually bet. Here's what happened when my Dad bowed out of our annual bracket pool this March...
While he enjoys a friendly wager – like that time I was 12 and bet him the final BBQ sausage that I could juke him with the football (I got crushed, BTW) – he’s by no means a gambling man. So, these are some wagers inspired by my old man, and probably a lot of our fathers, for this Sunday’s annual day of appreciation.
Mayweather vs. McGregor
Let’s jump right into the hot topic: The Money vs. The Mouth. Dad isn't kind to athletes who run their mouths about how great they are, so he’s not likely forking over the $150 for this PPV between two of the all-time trash talkers in sports. He'd rather spend that money on some patio furniture or some maintenance for his ride-on mower.
If he could bet on it, Dad would take the prop where both fighters simultaneously land KO punches and drop to the mat in dead silence. So, I guess he’s on the Draw at +3,000. And don't say it doesn't happen...
If Fred Couples was playing in the U.S. Open this weekend, my dad would be all over him to win outright. So, instead, he’s on Round 1 leader Rickie Fowler (Open 25/1, Now 3/1) because he likes Ricky’s classic all-orange ensemble.
He’s been snooping around his club’s pro shop for some orange Puma gear and I haven’t got the heart to tell him he’d look like Otto the Syracuse Orange mascot if he ever got his “Rickie” on.
So, Dad’s got the Yankees over the A’s this weekend in just about every which way he can – moneyline, runline, series price – but most notably the 5-inning odds. My father is notorious for sitting down to watch a sporting event and falling asleep before it’s over. Those abbreviated game odds are perfect for Dad, who gets to watch his bet cash in the first five innings then gets in some shuteye for the final four.
That also means he’s backing the Astros over the Red Sox. My dad’s biggest gripe with Boston isn’t the heated history between the two clubs or that the BoSox have won more World Series than the Yanks in recent years. It’s their pants. As an old ballplayer, my dad has taken it upon himself to become the unofficial MLB fashion police.
“Look at this guy, pants hanging halfway down his ass. How the hell is he supposed to run to first like that? You don’t see any Yankees like that.”
It can wear on you over the course of nine innings, but luckily he’s asleep for most of them.
I have a terrible secret. I’m a closet NASCAR fan and it’s my father’s fault.
Once the NFL season was over in our house, Sundays became NASCAR day. My dad and my brother both love it and have even been to a few races. I’ll admit, the last few laps can be pretty damn exciting.
My dad’s pick to win the Cup championship every year was, “Anybody but Jeff Gordon”. But now that Gordon is gone retirin’, Dad doesn’t have an outlet for his anger each and every race. Where does that rage go? All that pent-up aggression should make football season very interesting…
And speaking of football, the reason I’m a Dallas Cowboys fan is because my father is a New York Giants fan. Growing up, we’d suffer through Giants games Sunday after Sunday until one week they played the Cowboys and their trio of Emmitt Smith, Michael Irvin and Troy Aikman. Needless to say, I was hooked.
The tables have turned in recent years and I’m still suffering through Giants games. However, those games happen to be Super Bowls.
The biggest games of the year for us, at least, are the two times New York and Dallas matchup in the regular season. So there is a red circle around September 10 on both our calendars. That’s Week 1 of the NFL season, when the Giants visit the Cowboys as 5-point underdogs on Sunday Night Football.
No matter the outcome of the game, one of us calls the other and opens with “How ‘Bout Them Cowboys!”. It stings a little when he says it.
Editor's note: This article contains sections of a story published in 2015.