Bill O’Boyle

Beyond the Byline: Happy 100th, dad!

WILKES-BARRE — Every time I drive down Main Street in Plymouth and I see my dad’s Hometown Heroes banner, I salute him and I thank him for all he did for me.

My dad, William O’Boyle Sr., would turn 100 on Monday, Nov. 21, and I wish he was here to celebrate.

But I do celebrate my dad and my mom every day — not a day has gone by since they passed that I have not thought about them and relied on them for counseling and guidance.

I know I’m not the only person who had great parents, but my mom and dad are all I had to evaluate what great parenting was about.

And they were really great parents.

My dad was all about family, friends and community — and fun. I have yet to meet one person who ever said anything bad about my dad.

That’s quite a legacy — he was fair, even if at times it seemed unfair to me.

After my mom died in May of 1968, my dad was devastated. He knew we couldn’t stay in our house — too many memories for him and he knew I was having a tough time being there.

So one day he asked how I felt about moving and I was thrilled. It was at that point, I think, where we really started to become closer than ever before because I knew he really did had my best interests at heart.

And we sure had quite a journey together. He had to deal with the trials and tribulations of having a son — an only child — who struggled with school, peer pressure and socialization. But he let me find my way, all the while, however, he was there, always watching to make sure I stayed on the right path.

My dad was happy when I told him I was getting married — and, he was understanding when I told him I was getting divorced.

My dad followed me through all my athletics — he attended every game I ever played.

My dad always asked me how I was doing and he was always there to answer the phone, even if I was calling just to check on him.

My dad never told me about what happened in World War II until one evening when he was in the hospital and near the end of his life. I asked him if he was ever going to tell me how he lost his leg.

This time, my dad told me the story. He told me about the boat ride on D-Day — how he and all the other soldiers knew that many of them weren’t going to live to see another day — that they wouldn’t come home again.

That this was their duty to their country.

My dad told me about running onto the beach and up a hill not knowing what he was about to encounter.

My dad told me the next thing he remembered was waking up in an Army hospital and somebody telling him he was going home.

My dad told me he asked why and he was told that he had lost his right leg when he stepped on a land mine.

Tough news, but my dad never felt sorry for himself. I think he was glad to be alive, knowing so many others didn’t make it.

That’s why my dad dedicated much of his life to veterans’ organizations and always attended ceremonies.

My dad went on to be a husband, a father, a brother and uncle — and a friend to so many.

My dad gave of himself for the betterment of others.

My dad was a proud, humble, compassionate man.

My dad never let his disability slow him down.

My dad came home after the war and went to work for Leslie Fay for 29 years before a stroke forced his early retirement.

Along the way, my dad co-founded the Plymouth Little League. He served as league president most of his life, except for the four years I played. My dad didn’t want to even have the appearance of favoritism shown toward me.

My dad loved sports and he taught me to love New York City teams like the Yankees, Giants and Knicks. He also loved Notre Dame, yet he respected and rooted for Joe Paterno’s Nittany Lions — except when they played the Irish.

I learned so much from my dad and as I reflect on his life, even though he was knocked down a few times, he always got up and moved on, never complaining.

My dad was a gentleman. He was kind and courteous. He was fair to all.

My dad gave his all to his country and to his community.

And my dad gave even more to me.

There were times when I felt he was over-protective, but I know now that he wasn’t — he always knew when to let the leash go a bit and when to tighten it up.

His example made me better.

Happy 100th, dad! Tell mom I said hi.

I hope I’ve done you proud.