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‘Wisdom of Our Fathers’
Tim Russert writes about how his follow-up to ‘Big Russ & Me’ came about
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“Make it out to Big Mike,” somebody told me, which was followed in rapid succession by:
“This is for Big Mario.”
“Please inscribe it to Big Manuel.”
“For Big Irv.”
“Big Willie.”
“Big Stan.”
I had expected that my book would appeal to readers in my hometown of Buffalo, New York, but I didn’t know whether the story of a young man coming of age in a blue-collar Irish-Catholic neighborhood, whose father was a truck driver and sanitation man, would strike a chord with a wider audience. As I soon discovered, there were many Big Russes out there—good, industrious, patriotic men who had a lot in common with my dad, even if they didn’t share his religion or heritage. By writing a book about my father, I was affirming not only his life, but the lives of many other fathers as well.
“You could have been writing about my dad,” people told me. Or, “Your dad was just like mine—a man of few words but a lot of love.”
Or, “Thank you for talking about your dad in such a positive way, because that was my experience too.”
Here and there, somebody would hand me a note and ask me to read it when I had a free moment. Later that day, I would learn a little about that dad: his favorite saying, or the lessons he taught (sometimes by his words but more often by his actions), or the story of how hard he had worked to feed his family and educate his kids. During TV and radio interviews about the book, the hosts would begin by asking me about Big Russ but would soon describe their own dads and how much they meant to them.
I realized early on that the book was resonating far beyond what I had anticipated. Without intending to, I had given many readers an opportunity—an invitation, really—to talk about their fathers. They had listened to my story, and now I was listening to theirs. One other bookstore moment stays with me. I was seated at a table at a Barnes & Noble on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, where book signings are so common that the staff has developed a procedure for moving people along with great efficiency. Somebody opens the book to the title page and hands it to you along with a note, so you’ll know how to spell the name of the person for whom you will inscribe it.
When I read the name of Alfred Tanz, it rang a bell, although I couldn’t quite remember why. Looking up, I saw a small elderly man standing in front of me.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” he asked. “I delivered your son Luke into the world.”
I stood up and hugged him. “Dr. Tanz! I can’t tell you what this means to me!”
“Well, I had to come. Your son was almost ten pounds!”
I hadn’t recognized him without the scrubs, and also because he had seemed like a giant to me then. We hadn’t seen each other since August 22, 1985, the happiest day of my life. Maureen had been going through a long and difficult labor, and at one point I left the hospital for a breath of air. Finding myself in front of a church, I went in and prayed for a healthy baby and a healthy mother. A few hours later, my prayers were answered.
I was overwhelmed to see this man again—especially here, especially now. There I was, celebrating my love for my father, and here was the man who, nineteen years earlier, had welcomed me into that very special club with seven unforgettable words: “Congratulations, Dad. You have a baby boy.” Dr. Tanz was the first person to call me Dad—the best name I have ever been called.
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