My dad died this week. Once a tap dancer on the vaudeville circuit, he later worked as an automobile sales manager. An avid reader, his passion for life kept him clinging to it through a major stroke and two bouts of cancer. Cancer finally got the better of him, but not until he reached the age of 92. Even at just eight years short of a century, no life ever seems long enough. Born the year the Titantic went down and Fenway Park went up, he was asked in his final days whether he had hung on just to see the Red Sox win the World Series. “No,” he said, “I’m a Yankees fan.”