THE TOUGHEST GUY I KNOW

This story is about my dad, Dave Mayer, who passed away on April 29, 2017. He was a simple family man who cared deeply about his family and friends, always did the right thing and was the toughest guy I’ve ever knew.

It is also a bridge to Father’s Day, which is a bit of an under-appreciated holiday. There are many dads out there who raised their families, made incredible sacrifices to care for them, and at the end, when they were sick and in pain, their only concern was about their family.

These are great men who put themselves last and others first. I hope this story about my dad and all of the things he did, brings back memories of special times that you had with your dad and creates a sense of appreciation for all of the dads out there as Father’s Day is approaching.

Four score and seven years ago today, on June 5, 1930, my dad, David Bernard Mayer, was born in San Francisco. His dad, Barney, was a plumber and his mom was a housewife. Together, they raised four boys. My dad was the second-born.

My father died on April 29, 2017, just a month shy of his 87th birthday. The memorial service was on May 5th. It was a tremendous tribute to a quiet man who touched countless lives. The church was packed, with every seat taken and many people standing, and I had many people mention that it was one of the best memorial services they ever attended. Even the funeral director said, “I have been to over a thousand funerals, but I can’t remember a more impressive service and tribute than your dad’s.”

How would I describe my dad? In his obituary, there is a dash between the day he was born and the day he passed away; that dash represents his life. For him, the dash is quite extraordinary.

To start with, he was the toughest man I have ever known. He battled cancer for over 28 years, starting in 1989 when he had his cancerous bladder removed and replaced with a bag. When I looked at his medical chart, it went on

like the rap sheet of a serial criminal. Sometimes I was amazed he had any body parts left—six different bouts of cancer including over 100 surgeries to remove skin cancer, numerous chemo protocols, 30 days of high radiation, hip replacement, shoulder surgery, gallbladder, diverticulitis causing the loss of half his intestines, and even a back surgery—just to make sure stitches were distributed evenly all over his body. During this same time, my parents’ house was destroyed in a fire and after rebuilding, they were burglarized and many of our family heirlooms were taken. Through all of this, he never complained, never lost his faith in God and never stopped loving his family, especially my mom. They held hands every day for 70 years and truly loved each other with incredible admiration.

Perhaps the best testimony to his ability to deal with pain and keep his sense of humor is the following story: Just a few months ago, when he was just starting to be very sick, (he had started a 30-day regiment of radiation after the removal of a second cancerous tumor on his neck), he tripped and fell and broke his leg. For two days, he hobbled around the house saying it didn’t hurt much. We finally had him admitted to the hospital and then a rehab center, where he stayed for almost two weeks. Every day, he would go by ambulance to get radiation. When he was sent home, he continued the daily travel routine for radiation, but he was still not able to support his body weight.

One night at about 3 AM, he heard a crash in the kitchen and, after disconnecting his bladder bag, hobbled out of bed, got his walker and went to the kitchen to investigate. My mom had fallen, hurt her shoulder and could not get up. My dad tried to get her up, but he was not strong enough to lift her. So, for about 30 minutes, he hobbled around the house with his walker and proceeded to get blankets and a pillow for my mom to make her night on the kitchen floor as comfortable as possible, and then went back to bed. The next morning my sister arrived at the house to find mom sleeping on the floor in the kitchen, and she too could not get her up. By this time the ambulance people arrived for the daily radiation trip, got my mom up and asked why my dad didn’t call someone, or at least 911. He smiled and said, “It was the middle of the night, I didn’t want to bother anyone,” and then went off for his radiation treatment.

Besides being tough, he was a quiet man, a man of few words except when he was telling a story and then he could go on for quite a while. We would all listen patiently for the punchline or the end of the story. Sometimes it was there; sometimes he just stopped talking and we would all look at each other wondering if we missed THE END. We hadn’t— it was just a “Dave Story”.

He was a man who was respected by everyone who knew him. I never heard a negative word about him from anyone. Rather, people would go out of their way to say how much they loved him.

He was a teacher, who taught his kids by example through perhaps the greatest love story of anyone I know. From the time he met my mom at a party when they were 16—he in a leather coat and she in a white angora sweater—they loved each other, got married at 19, raised four children and held hands every day. They were still holding hands when he took his last breath.

Growing up, he struggled a bit in his youth. He got kicked out of a few schools, had 3-4 car wrecks and perhaps was not the finest student. My mom and her mom thought he was worth saving and proceeded to straighten him out and guided him into the role model he grew to be for his kids and grandkids. Always doing the right thing, always looking out for the underdog, always worried about everyone else and seldom concerned about himself.

He had a great career in the San Francisco Police Department. He started out walking a beat in the Ingleside district, where we grew up, and then was transferred to Central Station and walked the beat in North Beach. The shopkeepers and restaurant owners loved him, and we were frequent guests of a great meal from a grateful inn-keeper. He became a detective and went into the bureau and served with distinction in a number of details—including the warrants, fraud, pawn, and even the dignitary security detail. One of his prized possessions was a picture showing him reaching for his gun and moving to shield President Ford during the assassination attempt at the St. Francis Hotel. President Ford autographed the picture with a note of gratitude.

He also believed in saving for retirement and made sure all of his kids and grandkids had bank accounts at the SF Police Credit Union, where he proudly served on the board for over 35 years. One of the last messages I received from him that is still saved on my phone is my dad saying, “Stephen, just wanted to tell you I went down to the credit union and put $100 in each of the kids’ accounts. Tell them they have a little spending money from grandma and me, but don’t spend it all – save some for a rainy day.”

He knew who and what he liked, and who and what he didn’t like. He was always quick to tell us who he was voting for and why we should do the same. Drove my wife crazy. He hated corn and broccoli, and though we often tried to hide it on his plate, we could never fool him. He was very impressed when President Bush told his staff, “I am the President, I hate broccoli and never want to see it again.” He had his heroes—John Wayne and Clint Eastwood; loved Frank Sinatra, hated loud, banging music.

He was deeply patriotic and loved the American flag. He was a veteran who proudly served on a submarine. His love for God and Country was only exceeded by his love of his family. While still in the Navy our mom was extremely

sick during her pregnancy with my older brother. When his commanding officer would not “grant leave” for him to be with her, he went AWOL to be with her to make sure she and the baby were okay. He loved the military and requested “taps” at his memorial service. The officers marching, folding the flag and presenting it to my mom and playing taps was incredibly touching.

He loved working on his kids’ houses and helping them remodel. Early on he was not much of a permit guy, and often did projects with the attitude that it was better to ask for forgiveness, than ask for permission. I remember him adding on two large rooms to our house in San Francisco, and when the inspector showed up as the project was finishing, my dad explained that he thought you only need a permit if you did a big project.

Discipline with Dave was always a little tough to understand. It seemed if you did something that was not that big of a deal, you got in a lot of trouble. Not eating your vegetables (other than broccoli) was a major crime, but wrecking the car wasn’t that big of a deal. Once in high school, I went out on a joy ride with some friends in my dad’s undercover police car. He knew but never said a word until 40 years later at dinner one night, he asked me, “Stephen, I have been meaning to ask you if you ever took my police car out for a ride.” I couldn’t believe asking me about this 40 years later. Never quite figured that out, but I thought it was pretty cool.

I remember summer vacations at Lake County and Lake Tahoe, endlessly playing games, watching fireworks and enjoying water sports.

I remember him being home for family dinner almost every night, often in his police uniform because while on duty he took his dinner break to be with his family.

I remember him going to every school event and every sports event for his kids, and he continued the tradition by attending most events for his grandkids and even great-grandkids.

He loved to read, especially mystery and detective stories, and often you would catch him watching episode after episode of Law and Order or NCIS.

He always knew a guy—whether it was to get a summer job, buy a car, fix a furnace, buy an engagement ring—he always had a connection and “knew a guy.” One thing was consistent; when you reached out to the guy, the response was always the same—“I love your dad, he is a great guy, how can I help you?” He taught us the value of working hard—we all had summer jobs, paper routes, and mowed lawns and washed cars for spending money. He taught us to never give up and never to back down. The bigger the fight, the tougher the

situation—keep your wits about you and never give up. When I abruptly left a company that I co-founded and ran for 25 years, he knew I was devastated, but when I immediately started a new company he was very proud.

He taught me how to tackle after watching me jump on someone’s back at my first football game. “Head up, plant it between the guy and the goal line, wrap your arms and drive him into the ground.” After that lesson, I often heard that there weren’t many people who hit as hard as I did on the gridiron. My dad taught me that. He also coached my brother’s baseball team and was a parent leader in the Boy Scouts.

He taught us how to love and respect our spouses and our kids. He always had good advice for us all. Some of the favorites included: • Change the oil in your car every 3000 miles and your car will last 30 years. I drive a 34-year-old SAAB. • Never buy cheap tools. They break and then you have to replace them. • If you dry between your toes after you take a shower, you won’t get athletes foot. • Hold on to your shirt sleeves when you put on a coat or sweater, so the sleeves won’t get bunched up. • When you get off the freeway in San Francisco, lock your doors. • Sometimes he was just so “Dave”. For example, he always told the kids when he saw them in jeans with intentional rips and holes, “I can buy you a new pair” or after his house was burglarized, he went to my sister’s house and hung “alarm” signs to trick the robbers into thinking they had an alarm system. So that, my friends, is the DASH that represents my dad’s life. He was not a rich man, but when measured by the way he lived his life and the legacy he left for us—I know that was worth more to him than all the money in the world.

I was in a store the other day and saw a display of Father’s Day gifts and cards. I started choking up because I didn’t have a dad to buy something for. So, instead, I told myself that I would write this chapter and send it out as a tribute to an extraordinary man and a truly great father. I hope that for those of you who no longer have a dad to give you a big hug, you will think back to when you did and cherish the memories.

For those of you that have a dad that is still with you, make sure he knows how much you care and love him. A dad is a very special person, and I am lucky to have had a great one for 63 years.