Remembrances of George Pogharian

Remembrances of George Pogharian

George Pogharian was a mentor, a teacher, and many other things to many people, but he was also my father. My dad had two great loves in his life. Although not the most important, his first love, at least chronologically, was sports. As the youngest of four children, all boys, he tagged along with his older brothers playing ball. All of them were good athletes, but my father was the best of them. During his time in the Army, he was a star player on championship teams in basketball, football, and baseball. Of the three, his favorite was baseball. He was not only an excellent pitcher (he had a 90-mile-per-hour fastball), but also an excellent power hitter. My dad did these things before I was born. He never mentioned them to me until I rummaged through a box and found mementos celebrating his prowess. An engraved silver case, a cigarette lighter, and various other trophies, each proclaiming him the MVP for European championship teams.

I first witnessed his prowess on the softball field. He played for many teams, including office leagues and sponsored traveling teams. At every level, he was the best hitter on his team, always batting in the cleanup slot. He hit so many balls over the fence and into Cameron Run that the league introduced restricted flight balls. After the change, he continued batting cleanup, but altered his swing, hitting more line drives than deep fly balls.

So, given my father’s prowess and love of the game, how is it that I never played baseball? It wasn’t for lack of effort. Like many sons, I wanted to be like my dad. I couldn’t wait to get my own glove, bat, and ball and knock out home runs. I vividly remember the day they announced the first sign-up for “ball” at school. After dinner, I presented my dad with the permission slip, which needed his signature, before I could join a team. He was a bit confused about the formality of the process – why couldn’t kids just go to the field and play ball? But he shrugged, took the slip and the list of rules from me. In my head, I could see myself on the field with my friends. As he read the rules, the bemused look on his face melted away, replaced by an incomprehensible scowl. While his expression changed, he said things like, “they hit the ball off a tee”, “there aren’t any outs?”, “they don’t keep score?”, and the coup de gras, “this is an abomination!” As a seven-year-old, I didn’t know what abomination meant, but I knew it wasn’t good. I didn’t get to play T-ball. Instead, I joined the swim team, a sport I continue to enjoy. The odd thing is that my father never learned to swim (he even had his swim lesson money refunded). Still, he went to many of my meets, contributing behind the scenes and at the announcer’s table.

Athletics and baseball may have been my father’s first love, but they were not his greatest love. That honor belonged to my mother, Carol, and his family. There were very few things my mom could ask for that my dad wouldn’t do. In addition to his actions, he often expressed his love for her. A common saying in our house was that he loved her so much that he married her twice. It was different with his children. We knew he loved us, but I don’t recall him ever saying ‘I love you’ to me as a child. To be fair, this was a long time ago, and I suspect many of my friends had similar experiences.

In late 1982, things changed. The first event involved my mother. A teenage boy asked a girl to marry him. She refused. In response, he returned to the high school with a rifle, entered the admin offices, fired shots into the ceiling, and took hostages. My mother was one of the hostages. My father dropped everything and went to the school. If the police hadn’t restrained him, I’m certain he would have charged into the building. Fortunately, they did; no one was injured, and the gunman surrendered. FWIW, one of the tactics used by the police included exchanging food for the release of hostages. My mother was freed after the delivery of a pizza.

Just six weeks later, a second tragedy hit our family. While driving my brother to swim practice, I misread a traffic light and entered an intersection. Unseen by me, a Ford Granada whose driver had a green light, also entered the intersection. The Granada t-boned our VW Rabbit in the driver’s side door, sending us spinning across the road and over the curb onto a patch of grass. I can still recall the terror I felt looking at the blood streaming down my brother’s face. A good Samaritan stopped and gave us towels to staunch the flow until EMTs arrived and took us both to the hospital. On the way to the hospital, I overheard one paramedic remark to the other that my seatbelt probably saved my life. After a few hours, we were both discharged from the hospital. My mother greeted us with tears of joy, my dad with stoic silence. At home, my mom doted on us, while my father avoided me. Several days later, he asked me to take a ride with him to the lot where our totaled Rabbit was sitting. The accident was my fault. I had not only totaled the car, but I had nearly killed myself and my brother. I expected that the drive over would cover these points in painful detail, but we drove in silence. When we arrived, he handed me some tools and asked me to help him salvage the radio and speakers. We also collected a few maps and a tire pressure gauge from the glovebox. My dad leaned against the twisted driver-side door, which hung open, and tapped his other hand on the bent roof of the car. This was the moment. Alone, away from the family, surrounded by scrapped cars, I was finally going to feel his wrath. As he opened his mouth to speak, it took everything I had to keep from trembling. But I was wrong. He said, “I’d rather do this ten times with you than one time without you.” The tension drained from my body as I realized the meaning of my father’s words. I’ve never shared this story. I guess in many ways I am my father’s son.

George, Carol, and grandchildren (Anna, Alex, & Nicholas)

I visited my father in early August. He was physically frail after suffering a stroke and spent many hours asleep. During the few hours he was awake, glimpses of his personality seeped through. His eyes lit up when I offered him a donut. He cracked a joke with the hospice nurse. A smile crossed his face when I kissed his forehead and told him that I loved him. Those were the last words I said to him. On August 17^th 2025, he passed away peacefully with the love of his life, my mother, Carol, holding his hand.

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