Life Is A Metaphor For Skateboarding

They built two empty pools. There were the obligatory halfpipes, ramps, and rails, but someone with a Z-Boy mentality had dreamed up the idea of putting in honest-to-God empty swimming pools. 11 feet at the deepest, demanding respect from even the most seasoned skater. A YMCA with a skate park, a skate park with two empty pools just for skating. California, man. 

The day had not started off well. "He had a bit of a rough morning", the teacher told me. "Shouting during their Centers time." "Oh, no", I said. "He's trying really hard to not be so loud. We're working on it." "I know. He's trying hard." She smiled. "For what it's worth, he immediately felt bad. He's worried that you're going to sell his Nintendo." 

In fact, that was the first question. "Dad, are you going to take away my DS for good?" "I don't know", I replied. "Do I need to?" He thought about this. "I was being loud. That's why I got in trouble. I'm sorry." We drove in silence for a few minutes. "A week", I said. "No DS OR Wii for a week." I looked in the rearview mirror. He looked back, and nodded. "O.K." 

Later we arrived at the skate park for his very first lesson. He'd gotten the board and pads as a gift months ago; we'd spent a few collective hours in the driveway, me telling him where to stand and how to get himself moving. More often than not the board would shoot out from under him and he'd end up on his ass. Bruises and scrapes were rare - plastic and foam armor saw to that - but they happened, and they were indelible. Today would be a test in many ways.

Two instructors - skater kids in their teens - and six students, all Lucas' age. Jug ears poked out from sticker-covered helmets, all intently focused on the lesson. They had to be - I was sure that the class would be held on flat concrete, but no, the kids were marched over to a series of small ramps, up to the top, there to look down like Wile E. Coyote into the chasm below. (Ok, it was maybe a four foot drop, but to a four foot tall kid, that might as well be the Royal Gorge.) The other kids launched themselves down the ramp fearlessly. Lucas was tentative. One of the instructors held him by both hands and guided him down. He rolled down the ramp, up the one opposite it. The instructor did this a few times, holding on to him each time. Finally, he mouthed some words to Lucas - I was too far away to hear - and Lucas nodded. This time, he stood on his board at the top of the ramp, the instructor waiting at the bottom. I held my breath. Lucas leaned forward and the board took off. He managed to stay on for a few feet...then out from under him it went. He landed on padded knees and elbows, lay there for a second, and then got up. 

Grinning. 

I exhaled.

Up and down the ramp he went. A little shaky, and there were a few more spills, but he shook them off and kept at it. And he was learning - knees bending, arms relaxed, faster each time. He waved. I waved back.

And then the instructors took the kids over to the pools.

They slid their boards down the vertical walls and slid themselves down after them. The class disappeared; I could see the tops of the instructors' helmets but that gray concrete swallowed up the kids. I caught snippets of the lecture, delivered in the trademark SoCal drawl: "Awwright...bend your knees as you go up...gotta lean towards the sides of the pool, you guys..."

I watched him figure out the pool. I thought about the morning. He's a good kid. He's just boisterous, and energetic, and loud. The board shot out from under him and flew up the side of the pool, and rolled back down. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten in trouble for being loud in class; it was a recurring thing. He stepped back on the board. He pushed. I caught something this morning, though; an understanding. Consequences. "I was being loud. That's why I got in trouble. I'm sorry." The board shot out from under him again. He got up, grinning - the instructor high-fived him; he'd fallen the right way, on his pads. The lights come on, in different ways. When I was a kid, around ten years old, there was a kid my age in my neighborhood who one day found a baby bird. It was still alive but it died when the kid pulled all of its feathers out, and replaced them with toothpicks. Sometimes some lights don't come on at all. Lucas is a good kid. He's a ball of emotional loving energy. He's 6. His amp goes to 11. He's figuring it out. He got back on the board again. Pushed. And flew up the side of that wall, knees flexing, body leaning in as if to embrace the hard gray slope, laughing, soaring.