A Father's Love (2 page)

I remember thinking,
What is this? Where is this coming from?
The person I loved, and envisioned loving for the rest of my life, until death do us part, had suddenly become as cold as ice.

It got worse. Bruna had a list of demands. “You need to come here immediately,” she said. I want you to sign over the full rights of Sean to me. If you ever want to see Sean again, you need to fly to Rio de Janeiro immediately. I have a document my lawyer has drawn up, and you need to sign it.”

Lawyer? What lawyer?
And how could she have secured such a document? She had been gone only a few days! It never occurred to me that this might have been a meticulously devised plan by Bruna and her parents in collusion with a Brazilian attorney.

According to Bruna, the document she wanted me to sign was ten pages in length and spelled out several demands, including that Sean remain with Bruna and her family in Brazil, and that I surrender my legal role as Sean's parent, in addition to giving full custody to Bruna. “And you need to agree never to press any criminal charges. Never to go to the police in the U.S. to file kidnapping charges, never file any custody papers in the U.S. courts, never file for separation or divorce in the United States, and you must do nothing that will interfere with my plans to obtain U.S. citizenship.”

My brain was reeling, my body convulsing; I felt nauseated.
Bruna, what is going on here?
I was shocked and devastated at the same time.

“David, if you do any of those things and go against what I want—if you hire a lawyer—you will never see your son again, and you will spend all your money trying.”

“Bruna, what is happening?”

Bruna was done and she wanted to get off the phone. “You must come here, David,” she demanded.

“I can't believe this ...”

“You need to come here now. Bye.” Click. The phone line went dead.

I hung up the phone. My knees gave out, and I slumped to the floor, my face in my hands, my head still spinning, my heart pounding. I thought it might explode into a thousand pieces. My mind refused to fathom what I had just heard, yet there had been no equivocation in Bruna's words. She had made herself quite clear. Our marriage was over, and she planned to keep our four-year-old son, Sean, in Brazil.

Our son, my buddy, my baby boy, Sean. I loved that little guy more than my own life. This couldn't be happening. I was crushed and confused, distraught and disoriented, by this ghastly turn of events. I had never felt so alone in all my life.

I called my parents. My mom answered the phone. “Mom ...” I struggled to get sound out of my mouth.

“Oh, hi, David,” she answered cheerfully. “Happy Father's Day.”

Happy
Father's
Day? My wife has just run off with my son. It was not a happy Father's Day at all. It was the start of six years in a father's hell.

N
OTHING IN LIFE CAN PREPARE A PERSON TO DEAL WITH THE abduction of a child by a spouse, let alone absconding with him or her across international borders. Nevertheless, my upbringing, in which I experienced the strong bonds of a loving family and good friends, gave me the foundation and fortitude to face the future with hope rather than despair.

My parents, Barry and Ellie (Poll) Goldman, were far removed from anything ostentatious. Just ordinary people, they possessed a deep, simple love for each other, unembellished contentment, and quiet human decency. They were the kind of folks many people never noticed, and Mom and Dad liked it that way. They didn't long for the limelight or want to be put on display in any way. They weren't perfect, but they were a model for what it meant to be good people. As an adult and a father myself, I am perhaps just now beginning to understand the depth of the sacrifices they made for me over the years, and I've been fortunate enough to be able to express my gratitude to them while they are still with me.

My sister, Leslie—twenty-six months my senior—and I were born in Philadelphia, at the old hospital downtown. Early on, I developed a strong belief in God. Mom was Catholic and Dad was Jewish, so Mom converted to Judaism before they married, and although we acknowledged God's existence and observed both Jewish and Christian religious holidays, including Christmas, Hanukkah, and Easter, we focused primarily on Judaism. My family celebrated my Bar Mitzvah, the traditional Jewish coming-of-age ceremony, when I turned thirteen. We were not a deeply religious family, but my exposure to both Judaism and Christianity from family and friends provided a basic sense of right and wrong, a moral compass on which I've come to depend. Faith would also prove to be one of my most essential survival tools in the years ahead.

Dad was the quintessential “man's man.” In an age when many men were spending hours in therapy, or going out into the woods and beating on their chests, or jumping into their midlife-crisis sports cars and speeding off on a cross-country excursion to discover who they were, my dad always knew exactly who he was: Barry Goldman. Nothing more, nothing less.

Dad majored in geology at Cornell University, and after toiling for a number of years in the corporate world for Hess Oil Company, working in their Geology Department, he switched fields and became a stockbroker. He finally came to the point where he said, “I love the sea. I'm going to leave the corporate world, refinance the house, and open a charter fishing business.” And he did.

When I was two months old, our family moved to Wayside, New Jersey, in Ocean Township, where I grew up thinking that all little boys get to go out to sea with their dads. My family wasn't wealthy, but if we needed something, my folks figured out a way to meet that need. As a family, we took a couple of vacations to Disney World, in Florida, although we packed up in a
Brady Bunch
–style station wagon and made the twenty-some-hour drive by car. We always dressed in relatively trendy clothes, and lived in a safe, comfortable middle-class neighborhood. My friends and I played outside all day long in the summertime, and our parents never feared that we might be abducted. For several weeks every summer, I attended Sea Shore Day Camp, a supervised, structured program of activities similar to day camp programs today. We'd swim, play ball, do crafts, and generally have fun all day while we learned how to get along.

Mom was the emotional core of our family, generously and openly expressing love and affection to my sister and me. Although my dad was quite spirited when captaining his sixty-five-foot charter boat, and was a big jokester who enjoyed a good laugh, he was not as verbally expressive of his emotions. A trunk with deep roots, Dad embodied a strong sense of stoicism and integrity. He told me, “It is important to be honest. No matter how hard things get, always tell the truth.”

My uncle Richard, who was actually Dad's uncle and therefore my great-uncle, was the grandfather I never had, since both of my grandfathers had passed away by the time I was three years old. Uncle Richard was much warmer than Dad, and was always quick to throw his arm around my shoulder to encourage me. Both men had a great sense of humor. So in many ways, when it came to male role models, I had the best of both worlds—Dad's strong personality combined with Uncle Richard's more effusive expressions of love—and I drew deeply from both wells.

 

 

NOBODY IN MY family ever said things like “I believe you can do it,” but, then again, nobody ever told me “You can't do this,” either. So I assumed that I could do anything if I worked hard and persevered long enough.

One of the best things my dad taught me was simply never to give up. As a boy growing up in New Jersey, I loved playing baseball, but when I was nine years old, I developed Perthes syndrome, a degenerative disease of the hip joint, similar to the problem that put an early end to the career of superstar athlete Bo Jackson. The physical problem with my left hip forced me to wear a brace, so I couldn't run well. Playing sandlot pickup games in the neighborhood, my friends allowed me to bat, but I needed a “pinch runner,” someone who could run the bases for me after I hit the ball. My friends even argued about who would get to pinch-run for me, because they knew I would almost always get a hit, so they were fairly certain of getting on base.

I desperately wanted to play Little League baseball, but I could hardly make it around the bases, even if I could hit the ball a mile. Determined to compete, I tried out, wearing the hip brace. I did okay in fielding, but I really shone when it was my turn at bat. The pitcher throwing during batting practice must have thought he'd have an easy time with me, but I fooled him, and really smacked the leather off the ball. I was certain that I had made the team.

When the White Sox's assistant manager called that evening to speak with my dad, I handed Dad the telephone then quickly ran into another room and quietly picked up an extension. Imagine how disappointed I was when I heard the man say, “Your son did amazing. He hit the ball harder and farther than any of the other players. But, I'm sorry, I can't have him on my team. You have to be able to run to play in the majors.”

This was Little League. That coach was more interested in winning than in encouraging a young boy to participate and to live life to the fullest. It would not be the last time in my life I would face such a twisted compulsion on the part of an adult who wanted to live vicariously through a child.

The manager of another team, the Indians, called shortly thereafter, and he had better news. “David can play on our team,” he said. “We'll be glad to have him.”

I was thrilled. I was finally going to be able to play.

For most of the season, the managers, coaches, and players alike regarded me as the crippled kid, almost feeling sorry for me. In our league, every player got to play in every game for at least two innings. But by the time I got into a game, it was usually to stand around in the outfield because the contest had already been decided. Nevertheless, some of the moms gushed over me. “Oh, you are such an inspiration!” I didn't really see myself as an inspiration; I simply wanted to be a kid like everybody else, a boy who wanted to play baseball.

Near the end of the second game of the season, the manager called my name and put me in to hit. I kept my eye on the ball as the pitcher wound up and hurled the baseball in my direction.
Wham!
I blasted that ball out of the infield, over the outfielders' heads, and hit the fence for a double! When I came off the field after a pinch runner replaced me at second, my cheering teammates and coaches in the dugout swarmed me.

Ironically, the managers who initially rejected me for their teams suddenly complained that my brace might be an injury risk to other players—especially after my first double, when they'd found out that I could hit the ball. It was crazy, but they refused to allow me to play.

Close to tears, and feeling sorry for myself, I was sure that Mom and Dad would join my pity party or try to console me somehow when I told them what had happened. But they didn't. Instead, they went to court and fought for me to be allowed to play baseball like a normal boy. And we won! I was not only reinstated on the team, but I was also permitted to have a pinch runner each time I went up to bat.

My new team, the Indians, won the division in our Little League and went on to the Tournament of Champions that year. We made it all the way to the last round of the State Tournament before we were finally eliminated. I felt especially good because I had contributed throughout the season to our team's success.

I was fortunate that the Perthes syndrome ran its course, and the next season, after having worn that awful orthopedic device for more than three years, I no longer needed the brace. I was able to run and play like a normal boy and enjoyed Little League ball for several more seasons. My parents' never-give-up attitude and their willingness to fight for what was right was a powerful memory that would stand me in good stead in the years to come.

 

 

I ATTENDED OCEAN Township High School, where I was in the Key Club, played on the freshman basketball team, and participated in intramural sports. I enjoyed baseball in high school, too, but the season was in the spring, when the New Jersey surfing waves were at their best. I had to choose between baseball and the sea, and I loved to surf. Almost every day when I had free time, after school, often before school, and sometimes even
during
school, I could be found on the water. I enjoyed surfing much more than studying. I was an okay student but not highly motivated or ambitious academically.

When it came time to decide on college, I wanted to attend a school near the beach, but not so close that I'd be tempted never to study. I considered the University of North Carolina–Wilmington and several other schools but finally settled on Virginia Wesleyan College, which was tucked into a richly forested area on the border of Norfolk and Virginia Beach. It was close to Cape Hatteras, which has the best waves on the East Coast. I also liked Virginia Wesleyan's small-school environment, rich in Methodist history, ironically with 1 percent of the student body being Jewish.

My long-range goal was to become a lawyer. I hoped to practice maritime law, dealing with litigations over oil spills, international borders, and that sort of thing. I majored in sociology with an emphasis in political science to prepare myself for law school, and I graduated with a bachelor of arts degree in 1988.

My parents and grandmother contributed a great amount of money for me to attend college, and I also took out some student loans. Nevertheless, each summer while I was in college, I worked to help ease the financial burden, taking a job as a lifeguard on one of the nearby New Jersey beaches during the day and working at night as a busboy at Kelly's Irish Pub and Tavern in Neptune, the birthplace of actors Jack Nicholson and Danny DeVito. For the most part, lifeguarding was relatively easy work, a good way to stay in shape, to have some fun, and to meet some interesting people.