Thomas J. (T.J.) Miller, 1946–2017
A couple years ago, the 30 for 30 about Brian Bosworth — the ’80s linebacker who looked like an ’80s video game villain — was on at my parents’ house. One of us walked through the room as Bosworth was running his mouth about something, and I think this exchange offers some insight into my father’s worldview:
“You didn’t like this guy, right?”
“I liked when Bo Jackson ran over his ass.”
Handsome but short, my dad only wore suits to work, in navy or dark gray (except for a tan suit in the summer), and each of those suits was tailored and pressed properly, with a shirt (white, blue, or pink) so starched (extra extra starch) that the cuffs were literally sharp, with a tie (had to be a certain weight to be knotted properly; you can’t trust people who go with a big knot) — then gold watch, gold wedding band, glasses, shined Oxfords, two Montblanc pens and a pack of Merits in the pocket, and trim, combed, parted hair. In the winter, he might wear a black sweater with a glen plaid sport coat, or a fisherman’s sweater with a blazer. But no messing around here. On the weekends, pressed and pleated khakis (never jeans), a polo or flannel plaid shirt, and maybe a crewneck sweatshirt or pullover, with white tennis shoes.
He carried this kind of external precision to his manner of speaking. “You don’t surprise people with major capital expenditures,” he explained while informing me, two weeks in advance, that they were getting me a car for my birthday. Credentials meant little, unless it was a rare kind of credential (“We’re not talking about a Rhodes scholar here”), and someone’s formal education level or given position even less (“John Kerry couldn’t lead a group of nuns in silent prayer”). On rare occasions, he might offer a statement like, “I always thought that was kind of cool.”
He had a difficult and somewhat mysterious life. He was awarded a Silver Star as an Army helicopter pilot and officer in Vietnam, where he also broke his back. He worked on the Hill and was an assistant to the Navy secretary, then became a federal contracting executive, and in the process of these things, traveled practically everywhere, from Venezuela to Pakistan to Indian reservations in the Dakotas, everywhere except China and Russia. But anything beyond these pieced together details would only come up if it were directly related to the current conversation (e.g., he was in Egypt when Anwar Sadat was assassinated, he off-handedly mentioned regarding Mubarak’s ouster, while we were in line at Chipotle).
Most of that happened before I was born, though. The same person who decided on a whim to go to Gaza for a few hours while he was in Israel once (very interesting story about a woman doctor!), you couldn’t drag to the movies. Instead, my father primarily did three things: work; read a book with a baseball game on; attend all our athletic events, to which he brought a nationalistic fervor for our individual achievement and an active disinterest in the team’s performance (“well, so-and-so doesn’t live here”).
I can see how you might read all this and think, boy, I bet that guy was a real hard ass! We’re actually talking about the least strict person you could imagine. No rules, no curfews, no mandates about what you ought to be doing with your life (his only career aspiration for me was to work in a Major League Baseball front office, ideally as GM). You couldn’t ask him for money, because he’d definitely say yes. Your flight was getting in a weird time? Well, what’s the ETA? He’ll get there 30 to 45 minutes early and circle the airport until you come out, but take your time. Endlessly sarcastic and unimpressed, sure, but Jesus Christ, what are you so worked up about?
His favorite stories about people tended to run along qualitative lines: One of his favorites about my mother — an enthusiastic, creative presence — involved her leading her MBA classmates into the building on the first day of class. One about my brother was when his arrival at a third-grade birthday party prompted someone to say that now they could have fun, because my brother was there. He was really not a fan of Jimmy Carter or Barack Obama, but his best friend was a Democrat. He endlessly would debate baseball statistics or some kind of obscure political issue with me, and was sort of a low key master of the “yes, and” rejoinder, so that any conversation with him could really be brought back to the Braves’ season, politics, or a sarcastic remark — and these activities were basically paramount. As a result, I could be working at a hedge fund or doing some kind of hippie socialist thing, or what I actually do, which is work in the media, which he didn’t like as an institution, and he really wouldn’t care. (Nobody’s better at whatever it is that Katherine does!)
And ultimately, the people whom he held in high esteem, it was more like traits they might share than any particular experience. These could include: understanding baseball; a working knowledge of political, military, or baseball history; competence, intelligence, humor, or outsized kindness, and any one of those traits must have been accompanied by the demonstrated quality of strength.
In this qualitative way, this disinterest in false stature, this relentless commitment to his routine, this constancy, this really not caring, my father offered people enormous freedom. Whatever’s a problem, it’s not that big of a deal.
This is actually very easy, very uncomplicated! And that’s an enormous gift to give others.
