Maybe some of you remember a cheesy ‘70’s era song called, “The Blind Man in the Bleachers.” It was originally written as a country song, but it was popularized on the pop charts by David Geddes who called it, “The Last Game of the Season (A Blind Man in the Bleachers.” If you’ve heard it and don’t remember, that’s understandable. It’s very forgettable.
The song concerns a blind father who sits in the bleachers every Friday night while his kid warms the bench on the local high school football team. During the final game of the season, the kid’s blind dad is absent, but no one notices. The home team is losing bad, so they put the kid in at half-time. The kid plays his heart out, the team comes from behind for the win and everyone but the kid is happy. It seems that the kid’s dad has died. When the coach asks the kid, “What made you play so good, son?” the kid answers, “It was the first time my daddy saw me play.”
As I said, this was ‘70’s era pop music; heavy on the sap, heavier on the backup vocals, and light on subtlety. I hated it when I first heard it in 2001, and I still hate it today. The message of the song is supposed to be spiritual and inspirational, tugging at the heart strings of a sighted public who collectively wish that all blind people could be cured. If you read between the lines, what you learn is that the blind dad had to die to make a real impact on his son. Most people don’t get it.
When it comes to my father, Richard Osentowski, we have to flip the script of this song that came into being when he was 29 years old. Where my dad was concerned, I was the blind kid in the bleachers, my brother Jared was on the ball field and Dad was usually sitting next to me in the stands. Jared might have been playing baseball, football or basketball, but Dad was always there, lending quiet encouragement and constructive criticism to Jared.
We spent a lot of time at ballparks, football stadiums and basketball courts when I was a kid. I loved traveling to Lincoln, Omaha and Scottsbluff, but I was usually bored during sporting events. I would drag along my portable tape player or Walkman and listen to a book or the radio. In fact, I gained my love of radio partially at baseball fields around the state. The only real time thing I enjoyed about ballgames was the concession stand. Man, you can’t beat a hot dog and an ice cold coke at a summer ballgame.
To the average reader, this probably raises a question. How could I connect with my dad when we were so different? Dad was an outdoorsman, through and through. He loved to hunt. I loved to hunt for Pringles in the pantry. Dad loved to fish. I loved to eat fish sticks. Dad loved westerns and sporting events on TV. I loved Star Trek, Batman and Matlock. Dad was a physically fit, athletic man. The only time I cared about exercise was in college, when I engaged in certain aerobic activities with girls in my dorm room at UNL. Otherwise, I was a pretty lazy kid.
You might read this and think that Dad was not an important presence in my life. It is true that, as a blind kid, my mother was more attentive. Mom drove me to blind camps, she connected with my counselors and teachers, she served on a couple of blindness-related committees, and she even tried to learn Braille. As the sighted parent of a blind kid, Dad didn’t know how to connect with me. But if you were to conclude that Dad was unimportant in my life, you would be dead wrong.
On Easter Sunday, 1987, our family came home from Grandma and Grandpa’s house, then Dad packed up the truck and left again to make his weekly trip to Crawford, NE, where he loved to hunt turkeys with some of his buddies. That night, I cried myself to sleep in my pillow. There was no particular reason for it. I knew he was coming back in a week. I knew we would be all right without him. I just missed Dad being there. He was a calming, reassuring presence in a house full of boys, dogs, hamsters, guinea pigs, goldfish and an occasional rabbit. When he was gone, we all felt it.
Dad was there for me in many other important ways throughout my life. In high school, he picked me up once a week and took me to lunch. He introduced me to Rush Limbaugh and advised me to pay attention to current events. He urged me to chase my dream of one day being on the radio. When I graduated high school and moved to Lincoln, Dad was there. When I came home from college for Spring Breaks and Christmas vacations, Dad was there. When I moved from Lincoln to Denver to go to broadcast school, Dad carried boxes and drove the Suburban. When I moved from Denver to Omaha to take a job at RTBS, Mom and Dad paid for my move and helped unpack my new apartment.
But it wasn’t just the major events. Dad was always there for birthday parties, for holiday dinners, for nights in front of the TV with Mom, my brothers and a bowl of popcorn, and for lazy afternoons in the backyard with our dog and the garden hose. Dad was there at our cabin at Sherman Lake, he was there when I took my first horseback ride at the ranch at Crawford, he was there for silly musicals at Windy Hills Elementary, and he was there for high school theater plays. When I rode the waves on the tube and got dumped off in the water, Dad was driving the boat, laughing at me. When I came home from college, or from Denver to visit the family, Dad was the one who always picked me up from the bus station. Dad was there when I smoked my first cigar, when I drank my first beer, and when I fired my first shot from a .357 Magnum.
Unlike many of my Generation X contemporaries who came from broken or dysfunctional homes, Dad was a stable, constant presence in my life. But more importantly, Dad was a role model. He was not preachy. He did not indulge in long, windy lectures. He was not a cold, controlling person who gave stern orders. Dad was a calm, collected person who seldom lost his temper. I can count on one hand the times that he spanked me. In all three cases that I can remember, I deserved it.
Dad was not a trash-talker. When he and Mom had a fight, he would never run her down to us boys outside of her hearing. Come to think of it, Dad seldom badmouthed anyone whom he didn’t like. He could certainly be judgmental, but his judgments were usually tempered and more measured than most. Even in the realm of politics, Dad was more soft-spoken than many of his peers. And he certainly wasn’t the kind of guy who yelled at ball players or officials from the stands, particularly when the players were kids.
I won’t tell you that Dad was a perfect parent. There is no such thing. I always suspected that he invested too much of himself in Jared’s athletic success. It is also no secret that Dad was a drinker. He was able to maintain a healthy work-life balance until he retired from State Farm in 2012, but after that, he began to spend too much time at home. His excessive drinking ultimately took a toll on his physical wellbeing, restricting him from doing the outdoor physical activities that he loved so much. I don’t offer this fact to dishonor Dad’s memory or to embarrass the family. Dad was actually a blast to party with at holiday time. I often said that Mom and Dad threw better parties than any of my college pals.
Four weeks ago (the day after Father’s Day), Dad fell and hit his head on the hard wood floor. Mom called the ambulance and they rushed him to the hospital. Mom called the three of us to let us know what had happened. I called Dad’s phones and spoke to him for about two minutes. He was his usual self, laughing at me when I said, “Dad, you need to quit chasing Mom around the kitchen.” It was the last time I ever spoke to him. Two hours later, he lost consciousness.
Dad went in for brain surgery, where the doctors determined that he had massive brain trauma. He spent a week in the ICU, most of that time in a medically-induced coma, connected to life support. On Monday, June 23, 2025, our family came together at his bedside and made the heartbreaking decision to remove him from life support. He lasted barely 10 minutes before he passed away. It was the most emotionally devastating thing I’ve ever experienced. Yet, Dad had made his wishes crystal clear in his living will. After the doctors had exhausted the possibility of him making even a partial recovery, the decision to end his suffering was relatively easy to render. The emotional fall-out, on the other hand, was brutal.
Sidebar: I want to give a special shout-out to my brother Nate and my sister-in-law Missy for doing the most to take care of our family (especially Mom) during the trials of the past month. Dad would be proud.
So now, Dad isn’t here. There will be no more cold afternoons on the back deck with him, enjoying a cold beer and a cigar as we listen to the ducks and geese frolic on the lake. There will be no more Dad, greeting me at the bus station, shoving a cold can into my hand as we drive home in his pickup to see Mom. There will be no more playing three-way fetch with Gracie and Dad on the family room floor. No more phone calls or texts about politics, the weather, the Huskers, or family updates. No more of Dad’s famous fried pheasant at Christmas dinner, or his delicious fried fish fingers at the cabin on Father’s Day. After 50 years of Dad always being there when I needed him, he is gone now.
Or, is he?
Two days after Dad’s fall when he was still in the hospital, I slept in. Mom, Nate and Missy had already gone to the hospital. I showered, dressed and called for an Uber to take me over. As I waited in the front driveway, a turkey gobbled at me from across the street. He sounded almost close enough to touch. He gobbled three times. I was sure it was Dad, trying to communicate something to me.
The other night, I went to an Omaha Storm Chasers game with some friends. It was a loud affair with blaring music, rowdy people and a P.A. announcer who never shut up. But there came a point when I heard a quiet pause, followed by a rousing cheer from the Omaha fans. I could swear that I felt Dad right over my shoulder for a few seconds. It was almost as if, if I’d turned quickly enough, he would’ve been there to hand me a cold one.
The truth is that Dad isn’t gone. You can find him in every word of this blog; even the naughty parts. Dad would always say, “Be a class act,” but he would usually chuckle when I stepped out of line. You can find Dad every time I struggle to do the right thing. You can find Dad in the lives of my brothers and my two sisters-in-law. You can find him in his eight grandchildren scattered across the country. You will find him in the quiet peace of nature, in the cheer of a stadium crowd or in the upbeat rhythm of dance music. You can still find Dad whenever you smell the aroma of a steak grilling in a backyard somewhere, or in the fragrant smoke of a cigar on the back porch. I’m sure his spirit is vibrant out there on the northern prairie of the Rockin’ Oz Ranch. Dad is gone, yet, he is everywhere.
In the teaching spirit of Rich Osentowski, I will conclude with a few short lessons under Dad’s favorite saying, “Life’s about choices.” When you retire, make plans to stay busy. Without descending into a temperance lecture (which was definitely not Dad), be mindful of your excesses and try to moderate yourself. Also, be absolutely certain to have a living will, no matter your age. I can’t emphasize enough how important Dad’s living will was when the time came to make crucial decisions about his medical care. And please make sure all of your insurance premiums are up to date.
The most important lesson that my father taught me is this. Being a good dad isn’t about speeches, or having the right answers, or about being perfect. It’s only about being there for your kids. In that arena, Dad was a resounding success.
Goodbye, Dad. I will always miss you. I love you. Thank you for marrying Mom. Thank you for my life.
Your proud son,
Ryan Osentowski – The blind kid in the bleachers
Richard Alan Osentowski, age 77 of Kearney, Nebraska passed away Monday, June 23, 2025 at Good Samaritan Hospital. Richard’s wishes for cremation were honored. The celebration of Rich’s life will be Thursday, July 3, 2025 at 10:30AM at Prince of Peace Catholic Church. Father Scott Harter will celebrate. There will be no visitation. In lieu of flowers, memorials are suggested to the NU foundation – Osentowski Family Scholarship Fund. Please visit www.hlmkfuneral.com to leave a message or condolence. Horner Lieske McBride & Kuhl Funeral and Cremation Service is in charge of arrangements.
Rich was born September 24, 1947 in Ord, Nebraska to Dorothy (Johnson) Osentowski and Dr. Frank J. Osentowski, DDS. Along the way he played every sport; from grade school to graduation. Rich was an All-State Class B basketball player. He won the Class B Nebraska State Golf medal his senior year. Rich was inducted into the Ord High School Hall of Fame for Golf and All-Around Athlete.
Initially, Rich was headed to the University of Nebraska to play basketball and golf for the Huskers. After a change of heart, Rich and his mother Dorothy paid a visit to football coach Al Zikmund at Kearney State College. Rich played football and baseball with honors for four years. As a quarterback, Rich helped lead the 1967 Lopers to an undefeated season. He was inducted into the UNK Athletic Hall of Fame in 1984.
On August 17, 1968 he married Karen Goble (Miss Kearney as he called her) from Beatrice, Nebraska. In 1969 Rich was drafted in the fifth round by the Minnesota Twins. He played his first summer in Sarasota, FL with Hall of Fame pitcher Bert Blylevin. After a successful summer in St. Cloud, MN, Rich hung up the spikes. Instead of pursuing baseball, he signed a teaching and coaching contract in Grand Island. He taught physical education, coached football, track and field for three years.
In June of 1973 Rich and Karen moved back to Kearney, launching his 39-year career as a State Farm Insurance Agent. Policy holders were his priority. With their loyalty and support, Rich and his staff built and maintained an award-winning agency. In 1979, Rich appeared in State Farm’s “Like A Good Neighbor” campaign. The commercial featuring Rich and his policyholders, Mike and Ellen Keenan of Kearney, aired nationally on NBC, ABC and CBS.
Rich was involved in numerous organizations in the community, fulfilling leadership roles and spearheading fundraising efforts as needed. He enjoyed coaching baseball and football; embracing young players. Rich cheered for all Husker athletics, but was a dedicated, loyal and contributing Loper Alumni. When not serving his policy holders or participating in his community, Rich could be found in his satellite office hunting, fishing, or golfing.
Left to cherish his memory are wife Karen of 56 years, sons Jared (Anne) of Shakopee, MN, Richard Ryan of Omaha, NE, Nate (Missy) of Rose, NE. His grandchildren, Hunter, Josephine, Jackson, Mackenzie, Emma, Ellie, Alexa and Olivia blessed his life and his heart with adoring love.
Preceding him in death are his parents and brother, Francis Eugene Osentowski, Aunts, Uncles and Cousins.
