Guest columnist Bernard Kleina: Experiences with Dad still live in loving memories

My mind is still filled with so many fond memories of a sweet, quiet, playful, strong and loving father.

Often, after returning home after a long day at work, my dad and I would play ball along the side of our house on the corner. We would throw the ball back and forth, back and forth.

The only thing that would change was the ball we played with. It changed with the seasons, from baseball to softball to football. It was always just us playing together like two kids having fun. Maybe my dad liked to play with me to relive his own youth, when he played minor league baseball in cities like Peoria and Rockford. In those days, he would cut out the center of his glove to be more sure of his catches. I asked him if it hurt when he caught the ball. He never said yes.

Once when Dad and I visited the Museum of Science and Industry, a bus full of young Black kids arrived. Soon, some older white kids started throwing rocks and yelling racist obscenities. Without hesitation, Dad took on the dozen or so white punks, chasing them all out of the parking lot. I never saw my dad angry, but these kids sure did. I've always wondered if the actions of my dad that day were an inspiration for me going to Selma in 1965. Then, as if nothing happened, we entered the Museum and headed right for the incredible train layout.

I remember just the two of us traveling to the Boundary Waters of Minnesota and Canada. Each morning we would canoe and portage to find the right spot to catch our breakfast. One day, Dad said, "Instead of portaging, let's tie a rope to the canoe and guide it through the rapids."

Great idea, I thought, until we saw our canoe break free of the rope and glide out into open water about 300 yards from a waterfall. We looked at each other, laughed, and I quickly dove into the cold Canadian waters to rescue our canoe.

I will never forget seeing my dad in the stands, watching me play college football on a cold, rainy night in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. After a long drive from Chicago, he was huddled there by himself, silently cheering me on. I felt so bad seeing him sitting there in the rain in his black leather jacket and wet fedora, but I loved him being there and knew there was no other place in the world he would rather be.

After 68 years, Dad and I still play together in all of the same games, but now only in my memory of a man who loved being my father. I still cry remembering what it was like to be his son and to lose him before our games were over.

• Bernard Kleina is a civil rights photographer and activist from Wheaton.