Beth Phaup reached into her son’s desk at a third grade open house, pulled out his math book and flipped to a page where her son, Jakob, scribbled a chart separated into three categories: “Things that will always happen,” “Things that might happen” and “Things that will never happen.”

For each, he wrote down a few. Things that will always happen: he’ll always play sports like baseball and football. Things that might happen: he might go to the Olympics or he might go to the NFL. In the third column, he had just one thing written down. Things that will never happen: “I’ll never see my Dad.”

“That was a real red light to me that something needed to happen,” Beth said.

Phaup, now a sophomore faceoff specialist at Syracuse (9-4, 2-2 Atlantic Coast), barely knew his father. “I don’t even know who the guy is,” he said. Phaup’s never looked for sympathy, but at times wasn’t sure how to vocalize how he felt. He attended wrestling matches, which he competed in since he was four, surveyed a crowd of dads coaching their sons and located his mom in the stands. He feared: Was it his fault that his dad wasn’t there?

“You overthink everything,” Phaup said. “You don’t know what’s wrong, what’s right. The main standard is: ‘I’m supposed to have a mom and a dad.’ And I don’t.”

But Phaup’s learned to accept a life without a father. Through therapy sessions and a matured mindset, he’s found peace with his situation — one that took Phaup out of the 1.1 square miles of hilly terrain in his home of Souderton, Pennsylvania to become one of the top faceoff specialists in the country.

Josh Shub-Seltzer | Staff Photographer

As a kid — and even now — people close to Phaup said he’s “the type of kid everyone wanted to be friends with.” He loved to always be “at the center,” his friend Brandon Bach said. But sometimes, when friends brought up their fathers, he used to lie. He’d just make up a story about how his dad picked him up that weekend. It helped him cope in the moment, he said, but only made things worse.

Bruce Bach, Brandon’s father, coached Phaup in football and wrestling and he and his wife drove Phaup around when Beth couldn’t. They usually have a smaller Thanksgiving without family, Brandon said, but they always invited Beth and Phaup over. Beth’s brother, Bill, and Phaup’s grandfather, Bill, attended every one of Phaup’s sporting events.

“We found our niche,” Beth said. “Just like any other family does. We’re just a tinier family.”

But at school, Phaup acted out in class and cried privately when he returned home. Teachers grew concerned. Not diagnosed until he was in sixth grade, Phaup had ADHD, dyslexia and a processing disorder, which limited his ability to comprehend lengthy instructions.

Beth was reluctant to turn to medication before she tried every alternative, so they tried tutors — math, Spanish and others — who promised rewards for good behavior. They even attached a rubber band to the bottom of his chair so he could freely move his feet without disturbing the class. But he still struggled tremendously in school.

Courtesy of Beth Phaup

Years after his father left, Phaup couldn’t avoid the feeling of being abnormal. Photos of his father lined his room in Souderton. Beth placed them there as the only memory of a part of her son’s childhood that was missing.

There were good memories, and that’s the way Beth wants her son to remember her ex-husband, David. The times Beth visited him on weekends at the hospital where David worked in their then-hometown of Virginia Beach, Virginia and went out to dinner. Images of the first days Beth and David brought their son home and photos of Phaup’s christening are the only evidence that his father was around.

At 10-months-old, Phaup was left without a father, and swarmed with questions. David visited once when his son was 2-years-old, but made little contact before that. Then it stopped. David had other children, and Beth started her life in Souderton.

The movies Phaup saw and the friends he had all suggested he was different. The son in the movies played with their father. His friends played catch with their fathers. He met kids with divorced parents too, but they got to see their fathers.

The two saw a therapist when Phaup was 9-years-old, and he asked the questions that plagued him. Was it my fault? If it wasn’t, then whose fault was it? Why me? The therapist suggested that Beth should try to contact David again.

They called, and for a short period, whenever Phaup called, David sometimes called back. But after three months, the contact stopped again. After the first couple of months with the therapist, Phaup’s dad only reached out twice: right before he went to Syracuse and this season. The first time left him to wonder, Beth said, but now that he experienced it again, he knew it wasn’t his fault.

Josh Shub-Seltzer | Staff Photographer

Phaup still couldn’t relate to many people: he hung around kids in Advanced Placement courses, and still took tests in another room. They talked about their fathers, but his mother was still the only one there.

After Phaup started lacrosse, Beth attended a parent meeting and sat down with Souderton lacrosse coach Mark Princehorn. The two discussed recruiting, and Princehorn asked about Phaup’s family.

“I’m actually divorced,” Beth said.

“Oh,” the then-23-year-old Princehorn said. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” He didn’t know how to respond, he said.

“Yeah, in fact, he hasn’t been in the picture for a really long time,” Beth said. “And it’s much, much better that way.”

“Oh,” Princehorn said, “I guess I’m not sorry.” They laughed.

At a practice later, Phaup — who was introduced faceoffs by Princehorn — broke off his stickhead at the X. Beth, whose visit to practice for advice earlier in the season spurned the change in position, called frantically. A special education teacher and a single mother of a boy who plays three sports, she worried this might be too much to handle financially.

“Is this going to be a common thing with him doing this now?” Beth asked Princehorn. “I’m by myself, I’m on my own with him.”

When Princehorn was in high school, his parents divorced and he and his dad lost contact. When Beth called, it reminded Princehorn of his mom. The sticks she bought for him, the places she drove him to, the things she did for him. He gifted Phaup a new stick, and told him he was lucky to have his mom. Phaup nodded, and for the first time, he opened up.

It all became clear: The rides. The new sticks. All the different places his mom took him. He remembered a trip to the hospital after Phaup dislocated his thumb in a wrestling match. Phaup thought he’d faint. “You’re not going to pass out!” Phaup remembered she yelled. “You’re fine!” His mom “is a straight-up badass,” Phaup said.

Throughout high school, Beth kept Phaup in check. Princehorn always knew when Phaup was in trouble before Phaup even knew that he did anything wrong. Princehorn received missed calls from Beth, and when he called back, she said, “Oh, I handled it. Never mind. Just ignore my call.”

“Oh, no,” Princehorn laughed. “Damnit kid, what did you do this time?”

Courtesy of Beth Phaup

Before every faceoff at Syracuse, Phaup looks for his mom in the crowd. Sometimes she nervously wanders, and is more difficult to spot, but he surveys the entire stands. He wishes he could hug her, but locating her before and after a draw is enough. She always texts the same thing before games: “Go to work today and kick butt.” She’s been to all but one of Phaup’s games, and brings a contingent of supporters with her.

“I was like, ‘Yeah, my mom brings me up, and that’s sick,’” he said. “To this day, I think that’s the coolest thing ever… I’ll even bring it up, ‘Hey, it’s just me and my mom.’ I just think it’s so cool.”

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever talk to his father again — maybe if his kids want to know who their grandfather is, more than just photos — but Phaup doesn’t think about it anymore. People around him know his mindset isn’t out of spite, and Princehorn hopes one day he can make contact. But Phaup knows who has been around the whole time. And that’s who he wants to share his life with.

“Hey, this is between you and your father,” Beth said to Phaup when his father contacted this year. “If you want to talk to him, I’m not going to stop you. If you want a relationship with your father, you can.”

But each time, Phaup didn’t respond. “No, there’s no reason,” he said. “I love the way my life’s been going so far.”

Published on May 10, 2019 at 9:20 pm

Contact Michael: mmcclear@syr.edu | @MikeJMcCleary