Bred to Be? Some Insight into Marv

Love him or hate him, my dad, Marv Marinovich, was a force of nature unlike any I have seen before or since. In this post, I reflect upon the early years under his watchful eye.

Marv.

Who calls their dad by their first name without being a little fucked up? Most of the time, he scared the shit out of people. With his stare that could dig holes and his predatory posture, it was best to fall in line or get the hell out of the way. He operated with one goal in mind: athletic success. And with that mission, he drove a literal and figurative bulldozer through our house to achieve it.

I was ten years old when I found myself surrounded by men larger than our refrigerator. I’d run out of the kitchen to avoid getting trapped into girl talk with Mom and my older sister, Traci. They spoke in tongues. My sister was about to cry, all puffy-eyed and sorrowful. All I had to catch was “bad boyfriend,” and they lost me faster than a plate of organ meat.

I busted open the door to the garage to check on Dad. He held court with four Rams players, reviewing the day’s training sequence. As their huddle broke, I caught one of the guys, with skin blacker than night, joking with Dad.

“You’re the only cracker I know named Marvin.” He laughed and shook his head in disbelief.

“Yeah, I hear that all the time.” Dad offered a shit-eating grin. He pointed to the bench, a visual cue that it was time to get busy.

“Okay, Marv, I got you. Time to sweat.” The literal people mover, an offensive lineman known for his brick wall of a torso, took his position on the bench.

With everyone else calling him Marv, I decided to try it out too. Why not? After a moment of hesitation, I went for it: “Hey, Marv,” I hollered from the other end of the garage, intentionally near the driveway in case I needed to make a quick getaway.

Dad paused. It was long, maybe two seconds. You could’ve heard a pin drop as chatter abruptly stopped.

For more of the story, check out Marinovich at: https://www.marinovichbook.com.