With apologies to Leo Durocher, who never actually said, “Nice guys finish last!” (what he actually said was not as memorable, and was turned into the catchier soundbite by a newspaper reporter), I maintain that nice guys don’t always finish last. Exhibit A is my dad, who died in late December, 2018, at the age of eighty-eight.
My dad, Bob Southern, was a nice guy. It was an essential element of who he was. I recall that, upon my graduating with an accounting degree in the early 1980’s, my dad arranged for an informational interview for me with a senior executive with a Fortune 500 firm, with whom he served on one of the many philanthropic boards with which he was connected. During my conversation with this executive, he expressed his admiration for how quietly Bob wielded power and influenced decision-making of this particular board. You see, my dad spent a number of years at the top of his profession, as managing partner of one of the largest and most prestigious law firms in Chicago. His career with the firm spanned the years 1954 to 1996 ( I know this because I have a Tiffany clock given to Bob upon his retirement, and engraved with those dates, sitting on my desk).
The picture that sits atop this post features my dad in his natural habitat: behind his desk in his office on South LaSalle Street in Chicago. When we visited Dad at his office, we were required to dress in suit and tie, sometimes traveling from our North Shore suburb by train to Northwestern Station, and walking from there to his office. I don’t profess to understand all that my dad accomplished while with the firm; as a lawyer, he never argued a case in court, and seemed to spend much of his time reviewing contracts and other agreements. He also talked about resolving disagreements among his partners (no small task, assuaging fragile egos of high-priced legal talent), and, on more than one occasion, escorting a partner to a rehabilitation facility.
Now, I don’t want you to get the impression that my dad was perfect. Being a nice guy all the time can take a toll. He had a temper that he could unfurl at times, which was all the more impactful because it was unexpected. He was fond of telling very detailed, unbelievable stories, all in support of singular, pun-packed punch lines, such as “Super-calloused, fragile mystic, vexed with halitosis,” and “Transporting miners over sedate lions for immortal porpoises.” Groan-worthy, these stories.
My dad fostered in me a love of reading and writing. I have a coffee cup on my desk inscribed with the Latin phrase: “Illegitimi non carborundum,” which loosely translates to: “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” He claimed it was an old legal profession saying, but I believe it’s good advice for us all.
Bob was also quite meticulous. I remember spending about three hours, as a young man, assisting him with hanging four numbers on the outside of a house in which we lived. Apparently, he misunderstood the carpentry adage, “Measure twice, and cut once” – our motto that day can best be described as, “Measure fourteen times, agonize over the math for a really long time, and then, as your son is about to stomp off in disgust, finally hammer them in.” Perhaps it is that sense of precision which enabled him to be successful with the firm.
As formal as my dad was in professional situations, he could be down-to-earth as well. My mom and dad visited us every year for homecoming, when my siblings and I were in school at the University of Kansas, in Lawrence. Given the labyrinthine liquor laws in the state of Kansas, Bob was required to join a private club each year, when we went out to dinner, in order that we could enjoy a cocktail with dinner. Inevitably, when they arrived the following year, that club was no longer operating, as clubs came and went quickly in a college town such as Lawrence, and Bob would have to become a member in a brand new club. He cycled through quite a number of Lawrence clubs in those days.
Bob also held the (honorary) title of “Mr. Polish”, owing to his ordering six polish sausages, six french fries, and six diet colas, from the aptly-named, “Hot Dog Island”, which resided in the middle of three very busy streets, virtually every Saturday for a couple of years in the 1970’s, in order to feed our family of six. The owner of the hot dog joint would announce loudly, “Hey, Mr. Polish is here!” when we came in to retrieve our order. His title struck me as ironic, given our plain-vanilla, WASP heritage.
Speaking of irony, it is perhaps even more ironic that the title of this post refers to a sports figure. Bob, you see, cared not a whit about sports of any sort; that was my mother’s domain. But, that didn’t prevent him from coaching my basketball team when I was about nine or ten. I would argue that his, “heave the ball the length of the court on every in-bounds play” strategy wasn’t in the same weight class as Tex Winter’s “triangle offense”. We didn’t log many wins that season. And, if fishing can be counted as a sport (I would argue against its inclusion), my dad similarly fell a bit short – the first fishing excursion I can recall with my dad resulted in my catching a sunfish about that big (you can’t see my hands, but I’m holding my thumb and forefinger about two inches apart), and frantically rowing the boat back towards shore, as it was rapidly sinking. In his game attempt to feign interest in the baseball that I became fanatical about, he told a story about going to a baseball game with his brother, and his Uncle Herbie, when he was a youngster. A fan behind them in the stands was constantly yelling, “Get the water hot!” as the hometown pitcher was getting shelled by the other team’s hitters. In deconstructing this taunt, my dad explained that because the pitcher was giving up too many hits, the manager ought to remove the pitcher from the game, and send him to the showers – hence, the reason for getting the water hot. Man, that’s obscure.
I haven’t provided you with many concrete examples of why I consider my dad to have been a nice guy; you’ll simply have to trust me. And, I think being a nice guy is not something that can be self-proclaimed; much like the (honorary) title of “Mr. Polish”, it can only be awarded by others. That’s why I wouldn’t claim to be a nice guy – I can only suggest that I try to be a nice guy. . .like my dad.
Thanks,
B.S.
thanksbs 