MyStory

I know, you're probably saying, `oh no, not another hero dad story'. Well, this story is not just about another dad; it's about my dad. And just like your dad probably means the whole world to you, so does my dad, and just like you dad probably made you what you are now, so did my dad. And I think all these `hero dad' stories are worth telling because we often forget how much we owe our own dads (and all the other important people in our early lives, too).

My one passion which began when I was 18 and has never abated in the slightest during my subsequent 17 years was due to my dad. He had said casually, during one of my year-end school holidays which usually saw me sleeping in and idling, `Why don't you do some exercise with the weights?' He with with me to the library, we found a book on how to exercise with weights and I was off. That first workout in my cluttered bedroom got me hooked. I had never felt that kind of power in my body, the rush of endorphins in my muscles. 17 years later, I am still exercising every day of the week. It remains the one true love of my life and always will be. Sometimes, I wonder if my love of exercise is genetic. My dad was a professional boxer. He continues to exercise, though not as strenuously as before. He's 85.

When I was a child, he would reminisce about how he worked out with weighs even with TB and while undergoing treatment (comprising 150 or so daily injections of TB drugs). He was not one to shy away from danger or hard manual labour. When the World War broke out, he trained as a volunteer to fight the Japanese invaders. He was 15 then. (He still has the certificate that the British presented the volunteers upon completion of their training.) When times were hard, he became a labourer. He said that gave him increased power in his punches as a boxer. He saw my sister and me through school on his $150 monthly pension. Where books and wholesome nutritious food were concerned, we were never denied. In an age when vitamin supplements had not yet become a fad, my dad made sure we took ours everyday. On an income less than what a maid here earns, my dad achieved his dream of putting us through university.

Last week, one of his retired ex-colleagues called. My dad wasn't home and we chatted a bit. His ex-colleague said, `We all loved your dad. Who in Telecoms (where they worked) did not know your dad? He never bullied the newbies; he was always nice to them, he stood up for them.' The strength of character which he possesses shines through in his empathy for the less advantaged.  It was touching to hear someone pay this tribute to my dad. Tributes often come too late - at funerals. I hope my dad gets to read this.