#74 was taking care of business early in the morning of June 9, 1982 when Phil yelled up from the second floor that I had a phone call. I detached myself from the nubile lass and made way to the second floor telephone. It was my mom; my dad was dead.
I had been at my parents house the night before watching the Los Angeles Lakers defeat the Philadelphia 76ers 114-104 to capture the 81-82 NBA World Championship. It was the last time I was with my father while he was alive. The game ended round 11 or so and I ventured in from their suburban home the three short miles to the 340 Club.
Somewhere between here and there; most likely in response to call from #74 in which she claimed she had an itch that needed scratching; I hooked up with my young lady friend.
Upon receiving the news from my mom, I showered. Took #74 home. Went to work and quickly took leave to arrange for the burial of my pop. My dad was a card carrying member of the 340 Club having paid a dollar for card #80.
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