The other day, as I was cleaning up the disaster that is my son’s room, I came across an old photo of he and I at the beach. I was holding his tiny hand as we walked by the shore, while the waves lapped at our feet. He was timid during that time, not wanting much to do with the crashing water of the Atlantic Ocean. I remember that trip. He had a cold and was only around age two. My baby boy. As much as we want to see our children grow up and become successful adults, we still sometimes long for the days gone by.
Somehow, the past twelve years have flown past like a jet plane and have turned my son into something that hardly resembles the timid toddler in the photo. Now, at thirteen-years-old, he stands five feet, eight inches tall and weighs in at around one hundred thirty pounds or so, depending on whether or not he’d consumed all the food in the house that day. There are no signs of him slowing down either. I occasionally long for the days when I could twirl him above my head and he would squeal for more. But alas, with him, it’s all sports all the time.
Fathers far and wide have experienced what I’m about to delve into. Losing to their sons. I’m not talking about losing sometimes, I mean LOSING…Badly, all the time.
“Dad, lets play a little one on one,” Ryan said, holding the basketball to his side and staring at me with a confidence that I hadn’t seen before.
“Sure,” you go ahead and take ball first, I replied, sure of the need for me to go easy on him to spare hurt feelings.
“OK, if you say so.”
I checked the ball, and immediately, he dribbled past me nearly knocking me to the pavement, and scored with the greatest of ease. It should be duly noted that at forty-four years old, I have accumulated a few extra pounds and my knees don’t seem to be working in concert with the rest of my joints from the waist down.
Since we play ‘make it, take it’ he once again had the ball. This time he faked the play he’d first scored on, which caused me to lurch forward like a dump truck with no brakes, and he promptly faded away for a jumper, which swished effortlessly through the nylon net. Of course he still had the ball.
On the next play, I guarded him closer, which forced him to pull yet another trick play from his arsenal. As I stood my ground, I was careful to keep him at arms length, when suddenly he bounced the ball between my legs and raced around me to catch his own pass and gently lay the ball into the hoop. The score was now Ryan 3, dad 0. I hadn’t even touched the ball. As is the case with most 13 year-olds, he simply can’t humbly whip his dad. There is always the old “Ohhhh, you stink. What’s the matter old man? Maybe you should sit down, I don’t want you to have a heart attack.” The realization that my son had eclipsed me in basketball was a terrible blow to my ego.
“Let’s practice football. Besides you seem pretty winded. I’ll grab the practice dummy,” the egotistical boy said, while heading for the garage to fetch his latest football gadget.
“Here, you hold it steady and I’m going to run a route, hit the dummy and pretend to catch a pass.”
“Ok, I can handle that,” I said, bracing my body against the round dummy and pushing my hands into the straps on either side. At that point I began to wonder if he was referring to the dummy as the dummy or his dad as the dummy.
“Are you ready dad?”
“Sure, let’s see what you’ve got!”
Suddenly, the boy raced to the right of me, turned and barreled with a full head of steam straight toward me with menacing eyes and what appeared steam coming from his nostrils. Directly, he lowered his shoulders and plowed into the foam dummy knocking me backward. I slammed to the hard ground with the dummy on top of me as Ryan raced another few feet and caught his imaginary pass.
It’s been years since I’ve had the wind knocked out of me, but the memory came flooding back as if it was only yesterday. I gasped for air, and noticed that my right shoulder was numb. I had grass stuck to the back of my head, and my tailbone seemed to be telling me that it was curled under my rump and additional two inches. I’d never seen so many stars out in the middle of the day, and found it interesting that they were moving in a circular pattern around my head.
“Dad! Are you alright?” the boy said as he sauntered in my direction. He kneeled beside me and waited for a response. The response was delayed due to the fact that I needed air in my lungs to vibrate my voice box, and currently the air that used to be in my lungs was now floating around our front yard.
“Yeah, help me up,” I muttered the barely audible words. “I think I broke my back,” I continued at a whisper.
I could see that Ryan wanted to laugh something fierce, but he did at least hold it in, unsure if a life flight helicopter would be needed.
Finally, with his help, I managed to get to my feet. I was able to inflate my lungs and although my tailbone hurt terribly, I managed to hobble to the deck to sit in a padded chair.
“What on Earth happened to you?” my wife said as she exited the house with our daughter in tow.
“Ryan pummeled me, that’s what happened,” I whined, as Ryan stood nearby tossing his football into the air and catching it.
“Dad, you have grass caked to the back of your head!” Sidney, our daughter said, giggling uncontrollably. At least she did brush the blades from the back of my head amid the laughter.
“Maybe you should just pass the ball with him and leave the hitting to the other kids on the team. I mean, I’m afraid he’s going to hurt you,” Kristi said while wiping tears away from her eyes due to her own disgusting laughter.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you dad. I tried to go easy on you,” the boy said, who was now smiling as if someone had wedged a coat hanger in his mouth.
“Nonsense. He just caught me off guard.”
I haven’t played Ryan in basketball since that fateful day, and I haven’t practiced football other than to pass the ball around a little bit. It hasn’t been because I’m scared of being beaten or overly concerned about concussions, it’s just that I’ve been busy.
Occasionally, I long for the days that I would let the boy win. I long for the little boy at the beach, who was deathly afraid of the waves. But mostly I long for my tailbone to return to it’s natural position.
