Sports Dad

The ageing father (especially if he has a high school son) becomes acutely aware of his physical deficiencies and weaknesses.  There was a day (yes, there was!) when this man could palm a basketball, fly through the air, and stuff the ball through the rim.  (I didn't say I could dunk . . . just that I could stuff it.)

But since this man's son has once again taken to the Rugby pitch and continually wants to practice his Rugby tackling on the old man, I remind him that he could, literally, break me apart with a single full-body tackle. I could shatter like glass, and my wife might never find my head, which could roll under a shrub somewhere and not be missed for days.  This is my greatest fear in life.

Now, as an old dad, I cheer my son from the sidelines.  I don't coach any more.  And at last week's Rugby meet, my role was relegated to bringing cheese slices to the concession tent (I'm not joking).  These young parents (who seem to have birthed their children when they were sixteen themselves!) take one look at me and say, "Let him bring cheese."  I feel like telling them that I also know how to cut the cheese, but I don't know that they would appreciate my brand of humor.  But I cut it anyway when they are talking about their sons' great achievements and how they coached their boys from pups to manhood and how these same boys--most of whom cannot even spell "Rugby"--are destined for greatness in insurance sales or hotel management. 

I don't admit that my son is average and that, sometimes when we are sitting alone together at night, we laugh at the same fart jokes.  Rather, I say something like, "My son just got accepted to Harvard and Yale, but he's going to have to turn down these scholarships to attend Vincennes University, a junior college, which has, by the way, more than eighty acres of pristine lawn and a banana-skinning major."

I'm an old dad who is far too realistic for his own good.  I have always told my kids what they don't want to hear (real stuff, real life, real dad opinions) and have left the rest for them to figure out, along with a healthy-dose of grace and support to pursue their own goals and dreams. 

As for sports, I keep telling my son that my playing days are over.  Now, I only play with his mother, and that only sporadically if my back holds out.  I tell him that he should keep his sense of humor, as he will need laughter to make the harsh realities of life palatable.

"Look what laughter as done for me," I tell him.  "I can still laugh at myself after all these years.  And I used to be just like you!"

He doesn't believe me, of course.  And there's no way on God's green earth that he would ever believe that, someday, he'll grow up to have my arthritic shoulders.

Kids.