Dance was for dad — still is

One of my earliest memories is of wearing a red polyester skirted leotard that Mom made for my ballet-class debut. The picture shows me standing in a made-up dance pose, blushing, my bangs cut to the nub by rubber-handled scissors and my own hand.

I remember my first dance recital. I was 4 years old. We performed a number called "Jack in the Box." We wore white leotards with rose tutus and arm bands, embellished with colorful pompons Mom had stitched on velvety ribbons.

Mom made all my costumes — and everyone else's — in exchange for lessons we couldn't afford. She sustained my dancing. But she's not the reason I love the stage.

Dad is.

Within those early memories of pas de bourees and pirouettes I hear Dad's voice, calling me to the TV set. We watched Fred and Ginger sashay to big bands, Gene Kelly scuff through puddles and The Rockettes kick at Radio City Music Hall.

"Look at the beautiful dancing girls!" he'd say.

I was mesmerized.

He would take me to downtown parades, where I'd sit on his shoulders and we would squint to first spot the Cyprus High Spinnakers as they approached in their velvet costumes and Marine Corps sabers.

"Look how sharp they are — and their lines," Dad, who had been a high-school drum major, would say.

It wasn't long before I was the one marching. Dad came to every performance, 100-degree heat or 20-degree sleet. He and Mom took me and my friends out for burgers and fries after I won a blue ribbon at a solo competition. And he hugged and rocked me as I sobbed after losing my eighth-grade bid for cheerleader, telling me he was so proud of me for taking the risk.

When I was on the high-school drill team, he never missed a performance. He always wore his crimson Excaliburs Parents Club sweatshirt — one of the few dads to actually have one — and sat in the front row next to Mom, on the end closest to the exit.

His pumping fist and smiling face were the last things I'd see as we marched to the locker room.

Once, our team had a chance to dance in Hawaii. We were not rich kids. But Dad always had the world's biggest wallet for all things educational. When our coach said we didn't have enough girls going and would cancel, Dad wanted to donate enough money to send all 18 of us. Unfortunately, we never went.