Holding my father’s hand, I leaned in close, whispering words meant only for his ears. “The final is on,” I said softly. “And Federer is playing incredibly well.”
But there was no flicker of recognition in his eyes, no familiar smile to greet the news, no focus drawn to the small television screen positioned near his hospice bed. In that quiet moment, the unspoken truth hung heavy in the air: our time together was drawing to a close, a poignant Family Matter unfolding before me.
Now, three years have passed, and that same final, the men’s French Open final, is set to be played again today. Roger Federer stands once more on the cusp of history, aiming for a record-equaling 14th Grand Slam title. Yet, as has been the case with every final since 2006, a part of me will always remain detached, unable to fully immerse myself in the spectacle. The echoes of that last match played on the unpredictable clay of Paris are too intertwined with the memories of a deeply personal and fateful family matter.
My dad, Mel Streeter, born in 1931, and I shared a bond that often felt more akin to brotherhood than the traditional father-son dynamic. Growing up in Riverside, he was a local sports legend, a towering presence as a forward on the Riverside Poly basketball team, celebrated as one of Southern California’s finest high school athletes. In 1950, he ventured north to the University of Oregon, breaking barriers and becoming a standout black player on their basketball team, a pioneering figure in the sport.
Alt text: A vintage photograph of Mel Streeter in his Riverside Poly basketball uniform, circa 1940s, highlighting his youthful athleticism and pioneering spirit in high school sports, relevant to family matters of legacy and pride.
However, his athletic accomplishments, as significant as they were, pale in comparison to the quiet courage he displayed in his personal life, a true testament to family matters of love and acceptance. In 1954, during a time of deep societal division, my dad married my mom, a white woman, the daughter of Astoria, Oregon’s superintendent of schools. Together, against societal norms and expectations, they built a family, raising four boys, myself being the youngest. Their relationship, like any family matter, had its complexities – marked by both turbulence and enduring love, navigating divorce and eventual remarriage.
As I navigated my own journey through childhood and adolescence, my father bestowed upon me an invaluable gift: the world of tennis. Self-taught, he had picked up the game in Riverside in the 1940s, defying those who suggested the sport wasn’t meant for someone of his background. Tennis wasn’t just a game for him; it was a passion, a deep love unlike any I’ve witnessed. After his basketball days, he dedicated himself to mastering tennis, becoming a remarkably skilled player.
Alt text: Mel Streeter is pictured teaching his son tennis on a sunny court, demonstrating the physical aspect of the sport and the emotional connection of family matters through shared activities and mentorship.
My parents divorced when I was nine, a significant family matter that could have strained our bond. My dad moved to another part of Seattle, and distance could have easily created a chasm between us. Yet, instead, tennis became the bridge. By introducing me to the game, by dedicating countless hours on the court – sacrificing his time, resources, and energy, patiently enduring our disagreements and my teenage rebellion – he forged an unbreakable connection, a family matter deeply rooted in shared experience and mutual respect.
I never reached the pinnacle of tennis greatness, but I achieved a respectable level of skill. I was consistently ranked within the top 50 in Division I college tennis and even dabbled in the lower tiers of professional play. A cherished highlight, a poignant family matter etched in my memory, occurred in 1983 when my dad and I had the honor of representing the Northwest at a father-son doubles tournament in New York, coinciding with the prestigious U.S. Open.
The Grand Slam events in tennis acquired a deeper meaning for us after that tournament, becoming symbolic family matters we shared. After I stepped away from competitive tennis at 25, I drifted from the sport’s daily grind. But with each passing Grand Slam, our phone lines would buzz. My dad would call, his voice filled with enthusiasm, urging me to reconnect with the game. “You should see how well Edberg’s moving,” he’d exclaim. “Kurt, Sampras is going to win this thing. . . . Kurt, you gotta watch this Serena kid play.” His passion was infectious, a family matter of shared excitement and connection across miles and life changes.
In 2004, a Grand Slam tournament played a different, more somber role in our family matter.
That year, I joined my dad and my brother Jon in New York for the U.S. Open, a trip initially planned as a joyous celebration. Instead, it became the stark backdrop for a painful realization. Illness, a cruel and unexpected family matter, was beginning to cast its shadow over a man who had always embodied vitality and health. Suddenly, he was fatigued, his movements slowed, his strength diminished, and moments of confusion clouded his usually sharp mind.
Alt text: A photograph of Kurt Streeter and his father at the US Open in 2004, depicting a happy father-son moment at a tennis event, subtly foreshadowing the family matter of impending health challenges.
The diagnosis arrived soon after: amyloidosis, a rare genetic disease that triggers the body’s proteins to malfunction. In my dad’s case, these rogue proteins wreaked havoc on his heart, lungs, and brain, mimicking the devastating effects of Alzheimer’s. The family matter of his health became our central focus.
By May 2006, my life became a series of cross-country flights, returning home to Seattle twice a month. Suffering became an unwelcome constant, morphine a necessary companion, and confusion a heartbreaking reality. As he would have undoubtedly done for me, I dedicated myself to ensuring my father’s final chapter was navigated with as much dignity and grace as we could muster, a solemn family matter of love and duty.
The French Open, ironically, offered a strange form of solace amidst this turmoil. We watched much of the tournament unfold on a small television screen in my parents’ home. During the early rounds, I would hold his large hands in mine, massage his broad shoulders, and prop him up with pillows as we tuned in to the matches. It was a respite, a shared moment of normalcy, a final good thing in a series of difficult family matters.
But as the tournament progressed into the quarterfinals, his breathing grew labored and shallow. It became clear that the time had come to transition him to hospice care, a somber family matter decision made with heavy hearts.
There, in a quiet, beige-walled room he shared with another man facing his own mortality, the French Open remained a comforting touchstone. We surrounded him with cherished mementos: photographs of my brothers, newspaper clippings celebrating the architectural firm he had built, and images of the trails he and my mother had blazed together in life. These were tangible representations of a life well-lived, of family matters cherished and accomplishments celebrated.
Yet, when the tennis was on, all else seemed to fade away. His gaze would fixate on the screen, a flicker of his old self returning.
“Federer,” he would murmur, a wistful smile gracing his lips, his arm making the phantom sweep of a backhand. “The guy is so good.” Tennis, even in his final days, remained a significant family matter, a shared language of love and connection.
Alt text: A poignant close-up of Mel Streeter in his hospice bed, his eyes focused on a tennis match on television, illustrating the enduring comfort and connection found in shared passions even amidst serious family matters and end-of-life care.
He eagerly anticipated the final, his last Grand Slam event.
The night before that last match, seeking a moment of solitude and reflection, I slept in another room, trying to gather my strength and bearings.
When I awoke, the match had already begun, Federer taking an early lead against Rafael Nadal. I went to his room. “Wake up, Dad, the final is on.”
He remained still, unresponsive. His eyes remained unfocused, unseeing. There was no smile, only a serene peace settled upon his dignified face. In that profound silence, the weight of finality descended. I knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within my soul, that our shared journey was nearing its end. Everything he had strived to instill in me and my brothers – perseverance, empathy, courage – the core family matters he had taught us through his life and actions – would now be ours to carry forward, to keep alive in our own lives, independently. In that moment, it became irrevocably clear that I would never again watch a French Open final in the same way. The family matter of my father’s passing was forever intertwined with this event.
As fate would have it, Nadal mounted a comeback, ultimately clinching his second French title. But by the time the final ball was struck, my dad’s eyes had been closed for a long while. He did not, as far as I know, open them again until the following day, the day he passed away, when his eyes briefly focused on his family one last time, a final, silent family matter of love and farewell.
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