A Father's Day filled with fear

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By GARY SHELTON

© St. Petersburg Times, published June 18, 2000

A thousand times, you have imagined being him. A thousand times, you thought of how wonderful it would be.

He was one of those rare, wonderful athletes who made you wonder what it must be like to live in his skin. You didn't just see Julius Erving play basketball; you wanted to be Julius Erving playing basketball. You wanted to weave through larger men the way he did, then hover impossibly over them, making them look mortal, and you could not help but imagine being along for the ride. He was Dr. J. He could cure gravity. Always, it seemed, he would be able to soar over the obstacles in his way.

That was then, a million heartbeats ago.

This is now. This is harder.

In your worst nightmares, can you imagine what it must be like to be Julius Erving today?

It is Father's Day, and the joy has vanished along with your son. You watch a telephone that will not ring, a door that will not open. You listen for a car in the driveway. You wait for a familiar face to come home.

Can you imagine it? Can you imagine all the memories, all the fears that must flood through Erving's mind in these slow-moving minutes? Can you imagine Erving as he attempts to fashion a happy ending to the torment, as he tries not to think of the unhappy ones it could become. Can you imagine how he worries? Can you imagine what he thinks? Can you imagine how much he prays?

If you are a parent, the answer is yes, you can.

If you are a parent, and you have waited for your child to come home, you know that precise moment when annoyance becomes worry. Fortunately, not many of us know that next moment, when the worry becomes terror and confusion and longing.

Erving knows. It has been 21 days since Cory Erving telephoned his father and told him he would be home in 20 minutes. Since then, there has been the private investigator, and the missing person report, and the nationwide plea with the reward, and a world spinning out of control. Also, nothing.

Where could Cory be? You wonder that, time and again. Where could he be that this news has not touched him? For goodness' sake, police haven't even found his car, let alone him. Why hasn't he called? He always called.

Three weeks is a long time for a nightmare to last. You wait, you worry, you wonder. You check the time. You drive the route, again and again. You visit his hangouts. You call his friends. Someone thinks they may have seen him somewhere, so you check that out. You try to console your family. You try to let them believe they are consoling you. You talk to the investigators. You watch the three telephone lines into your home. You hope, because what the heck else can you do?

"You can see it on his face," said Pat Williams, a senior vice president with the Magic and an old family friend. "He's composed, dignified, the way he always is. But it's a grave-looking face. You can see the worry etched there. But he's a man of faith, and to his family, he's a rock."

Sometimes, however, it is hard to be the rock. Can you imagine what is going on beneath the composure? Can you imagine the things Erving wonders, the way his mind tortures him?

You think about things. About Cory, the kid with the smile, the kid with the problems. There is the learning disability, and the drug clinics he has been in and out of. You think about your parenting skills. You second-guess. You question. Of course you do.

You wonder about the limelight. It affects kids differently. Some, like Ken Griffey or Grant Hill or Cal Ripken, seem drawn to it, as if having a famous father was the most natural thing in the world. Others, it seems to haunt. Mickey Mantle's sons had their problems. Joe DiMaggio Jr. was distanced from his father for years before their deaths. Marlon Brando's children both had their tragedies.

Was that part of Cory's struggles? Maybe. But there are those who struggle without famous fathers, too. Some children seem destined to it.

You wonder what Cory might have gotten into. Investigators have suggested Cory might be using crack again. Yes, there is sadness in that. But the longer your son is gone, the more addiction seems like a clearable hurdle. Get him home safe, you think, and you'll deal with the drugs.

You wonder about the trip home. What happened? Did he stop? Why? Who was the female companion one tip says he was seen with? What about the report about the gun? What could Cory have been thinking?

You remember the early days. The kid bouncing the ball in the driveway. The laughter. The tears. You wonder why things turn out the way they do, why kids turn out the way they do.

You think about life. By nature, yours is a private family. This time, in desperation, you took your case to the media. You opened your life and let people see your family's laundry. That was difficult. Not trying it, however, was impossible.

You walk around the house. You look out windows. You look at the dozens of pictures inside the frames. You wait. You worry. You hope.

You think about the public, and the amazing amount of sympathy you have received. You think about other parents. Cory Erving is not the only child to go missing. Thousands of parents go through what you are going through.

What is it like being Julius Erving? Right now, you imagine it being an empty, painful thing to be.

If you've got a prayer to spare, send it his way. In the meantime, imagine embracing your kid. Oh, and hold on for a while.

© St. Petersburg Times. All rights reserved.

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