Late Patch Editor Tim Jensen's Legacy — From A Person Who Knew Him As 'Dad'

ENFIELD, CT — EDITOR'S NOTE: The following story was penned by Alex Jensen, the son of late Enfield Patch editor Tim Jensen.

Most folks knew Tim Jensen as the Patch editor for several sites in Northeastern Connecticut. I knew him as Dad. Each year after his father’s/my Poppa’s passing, he would repost the eulogy he delivered as well as a writing from my Uncle Steven. In a way to continue that tradition, I authored a piece the night after I learned of his passing that highlights the side of him most people did not get to see. As much as losing him hurts and as much as he is missed, he will always be remembered as my Dad.

“What are your updated numbers? People are asking and I just want to make sure I have the updated ones.”

This was Dad. Whenever we spoke, which was admittedly not frequent enough, his pride in me was always instantly felt. He never really cared for the surface-level conversation; he always got right to the point. It was definitely the reporter in him, but he always cared about the “facts.” I never really knew how he could jump right in until now. In fact, Dad taught me a ton over the years about how to approach life.

When I turned 10, Dad offered to help me start to send letters in the mail for autographs on baseball cards that we had. At this point, I was admittedly a shy and introverted kid. This was new and scary for me. What and I supposed to write to an old, retired ball player? In 2009, my favorite player was Kevin Youkilis. There were a million things I could write to him about. But to Kent Tekulve? I was just a 10-year-old kid, he’s an old pitcher who had funny glasses in my “older” set of cards.

“Just write that your name is Alex, that you’re 10 years old, and that you were hoping he could sign your baseball card.”

One simple letter became ten. Tens of letters became a hobby of hundreds of letters. And all this meant that I had more time with my dad.

We began to go to card shows. When she became a little older, it was Dad, my sister Mia, and me. Dad called it “the hunt.” What kid would trade video games for a two-hour drive to stand in a hotel ballroom to see what old cards we could dig and scrap for in a dime box or a nickel bin?

We did, because that was our time with Dad. As much as we were both sick of Papa Gino’s pizza and standing for hours at a time, this hustle became a big part of our lifestyle with Dad. It was a dedication to a craft. For those who knew him, he was unwavering in the things he believed in.

The hobby extended beyond letter-writing. We were going to minor league games, celebrity golf tournaments, charity softball games, and anywhere where we could get more and more autographs. We met legends with Dad.

This was Dad’s world, but we loved it.

Our worlds were not worlds apart, though. In a way, it’s funny to reflect on how Dad and I thought similarly. Take our favorite baseball players as an example. I liked Kevin Youkilis because he was scrappy. He wasn’t the most talented player on the team, but he wore his heart on his sleeve and did a darn good job when it was needed. Dad’s favorite player growing up was Rick Burleson for nearly identical reasons. And that was me and Dad. We liked scrappy guys, we both thought to be scrappy guys. I would like to think this is what he wanted me to embody. He certainly had it in him. Anyone who knew him knew that he probably had an opinion, and you were not going to be the first lucky person to change it.

“I will never miss one of your games, especially not senior day.”

Dad had health issues for a while. Using some colorful language, he advised his doctor that he was going to make cancer kick rocks. And he beat cancer because that’s what he decided he was going to do. I think this mindset played a huge role, especially when considering how young my sister and I were. But health was always a bit of a concern. During the spring of my senior year of high school, Dad was hospitalized, and the doctors urged him to stay for a few weeks for comprehensive testing.

This devastated me. Senior day was coming up for baseball. While Dad was never my coach on the field, he spent countless times with me to work on pitching and hitting. While I never turned out to be a great player, it was time I enjoyed with Dad, and he enjoyed going to a field to put in work with me. When Mia took up Field Hockey, he put the same fire and energy into helping her become the best goalie she could be. And I took up a joint effort with him to help Mia develop her skills, even though I never played hockey or field hockey before. That’s the example Dad was for me. I could not imagine Senior Day without Dad because of what he meant for my time in baseball as a whole. He was there for me throughout the entirety of my baseball “career.”

For some context, earlier in the season, I threw an inning of relief (if you would call it that) against Hartford Public, who ranked last in the standings by a decent margin. I couldn’t try to find the strike zone if you put the ball there for me. And boy, Dad let me know that performance sucked. He wasn’t harsh, but he was certainly honest.

A week or so after what might be subconsciously deemed as the “Hartford Public disaster,” we played South Windsor - one of the best teams in the state- and they were beating us badly in the second inning. They bring me in for relief as a throwaway game. Dad was there watching, as he always was. Somehow, while I couldn’t get anything going against a worse team, I shut down nearly every single batter for 5 and 1/3 innings. And the best part about it? I got to walk off that field each and every time smiling at Dad. Because I knew what we talked about, and he was right.

“Good job, bud. You really turned it around.”

Thanks, Dad. And that moment was great. But how was I now supposed to do senior day without the coach that, while not on the field, taught me some of the biggest lessons about not giving up? About working through crap and coming out on the other side of it?

In typical fashion (and probably significant hazing to the staff), Dad convinced the hospital that he was going to check himself out, come to my game, and check himself back in for the testing after my game. He was not willing to miss the game; it was his last time to see me play and once he decided he was going, he was going to be there. By the time the first inning rolled around, he was there. I was in a sort of disbelief. But I was happy, because Dad was there.

After baseball, I took up powerlifting, which Dad had no experience with. I did a couple of local meets in Connecticut, and I qualified for USPA Collegiate Nationals which was in none other than Athens, Ohio. I was really excited, but I didn’t think I could go alone. I was in college, there were expenses, and that’s a far bit of travel I had never done. I told Dad about it, and he was all for it.

“We can absolutely go to Ohio. Let’s make a whole trip out of it.”

He suggested we go to Athens, I compete, then we shoot up to Canton for a night for the Pro Football Hall of Fame and then continue up north again to Cleveland for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He had not been to either Hall yet, so it was going to be a great experience. He also refused to let me drive because, as he put it, I needed to save my legs for the meet.

We bonded over his litany of CDs from his “Legends” show, which continued a long-standing tradition of learning the best musical artists from the 60s, 70s, and 80s. However, disappointment quickly set in after I was disqualified from the competition for not squatting deep enough according to the rules. How embarrassing. I felt like I let him down.

“You’ll get ‘em next time. But now we are going to have some fun, so put that aside and let’s move on.”

Okay, Dad. But I just feel bad.

On his suggestion, I tried my best to brush it aside, and I moved on. The rest of the trip became an amazing bonding experience between Dad and me. Guys being guys, father and son. I quickly forgot about the meet because of the good time I had with my Dad. This trip, while starting as a sort of disaster, turned into the best trip I would ever take with dad, and for that, I will be forever grateful.

Fast forward six years, a lot of life has happened. Throughout the process of getting engaged and starting to plan a wedding, I consulted Dad. Not only was he experienced in this department as a DJ and officiant, but I knew he knew me and what I really needed to hear.

“Just make sure your bride is happy. Don’t do anything you don’t want to do, but make sure she’s happy.”

Thanks, Dad. I will. But as time went on, he had a whole host of health issues that crept up. My biggest fear from senior day was creeping up on me. What if Dad isn’t there? I don’t know how to do this without Dad.

“I will not miss your wedding. I promise you that.”

And he was right. He got there. That was him. He decided he was going to do something, and he did it.

Our wedding band was nice enough to allowed me to sing to my new wife Erin on our wedding night. I came off the dance floor to find Dad gushing with tears, which might be the first time I ever saw that level of raw emotion from him. Dad told Mia and me that he was proud of us all the time.

But nothing felt quite like this moment. Just like walking off the mound after striking out one of the best hitters in the state, just like after I speed walked (not ran, because we were on a golf course) back to him after securing an autograph from the kind and legendary golfer Hale Irwin, I walked off the dance floor to greet my dad with a smile. But here, it was different. Here, everything had come full circle.

“I have never had a prouder moment in my life than watching you sing that to Erin.”

First of all, he didn’t know I could sing. God knows I didn’t get it from him. Through tears andchoked up words, though, he told me this. Having him there and feeling the raw emotion of his hug and tears, I knew I did the right thing and that I was a man he was proud of.

See, within the last couple years, Dad made a silly but noble attempt to try and respect Mia’s and my privacy because we became “adults.”

A silly notion, this meant I would call Dad rather than him calling me, but he always answered, every time. I told him this was stupid and for him to call me. But Dad was Dad. Call it stubborn, call it steadfast, he was set in his ways, and no one could tell him otherwise. But after the wedding he looked at me differently. I think on my wedding night, he released the part of him that needed to do “parenting” and got to sit back and enjoy my sister and me as the young adults he hoped we would become.

Although Dad had some trouble over the last year with a foot and ankle injury on top of the other medical issues that severely limited him, I told him after the wedding that I wanted to take him on a trip for his 60th birthday. It could be anywhere of his choosing. He immediately had an idea:

“Toronto.”

Toronto? In November? Well of course, that’s the date of the Hockey Hall of Fame induction,
and there’s two Bruins getting in. We both became excited. This was the first trip we would be taking together since Ohio. While I insisted on it being my treat, he insisted we would split it. That’s who he was. He decided we would split it, so there was no arguing with him because he was set on this plan.

We were like two kids talking about all of the sites we wanted to hit while we were there, and we theorized about the different players we might meet. We began some planning, but I told Dad some of the planning would have to come after my powerlifting meet, which was slated for September 7. I knew he was still having some trouble walking, so I asked him whether he would like to come.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

And that was Dad. Naturally, he didn’t ask me what time it started so he showed up at 7am. My session started at 2pm. Just like he taught me as a kid, he took it on the chin and made the most of it. All morning, he was texting me with commentary about the meet, and it was cool to see Dad step into something that was truly “my world” after me stepping into “his world” for so long. As he often reminded me, powerlifting was something he didn’t push onto or even suggest to me; it was something I chose. Having Dad be part of this meet was special to me.

I ended the day with a PR of 600lb on deadlift. After having an initial moment of celebration for myself, I was excited to go see Dad. He always cared about my best numbers, and he got to see the best lift of my life in person. I couldn’t have been happier.

“I’m proud of you, son. You’ve come a long way.”

Thanks, Dad.

The last lesson my Dad was able to teach me in the last week of his life was that no matter where I am, or what I do, I need to always keep pressing on. It’s what he would want me to do. While we never got to take that last trip to Toronto, I will be forever grateful for those final full-circle moments with Dad. As his son, I know the only way he would want us to honor his memory would be to continue pushing forward, as hard as it might be. Mia and I really were lucky. Just like he always wanted, we didn’t just have a father, we truly had a Dad.

“I’m proud of you. Love you, buddy.”

I am proud and love you too, Dad. See you soon.