DadCentric

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.

An Open Letter to The Spanos Family Regarding LaDainian Tomlinson of Behalf of My Son, Whose Heart Has Been Crushed

 Dear Alex and Dean Spanos,

While I understand and accept your recent decision to release LaDainian Tomlinson after eight mostly great seasons, my son does not. He is five, and his heroes are immortal; they don't lose a step in their strides, nor do they ask for more money than they (arguably) deserve. Opposing linebackers don't stop them; only kryptonite (and occasionally Jonathan Crane's Fear Gas) are capable of that. Athletes, in his world, aren't punished or released for lackluster performances - they are given orange slices and hugs and reassurance that they'll do better next time. I spent the better part of last night trying to explain the logic behind LT's release. I told him that I was sad when Shaq left the Lakers, but was also happy because the team would (eventually) fare better without him, and that Shaq too would be better off playing for a team that made him happy. ("Who's Shaq?", he asked. I showed him some clips from Kazaam and Steel, rather than run the risk of him becoming a Cavs fan.) I suggested that he might feel better if he were to send LT a thank-you/best wishes card. "I feel like LT died", was the kid's teary response. "I hate the Chargers!" He then donned his number 21 Chargers jersey, ripped the collar, and began sobbing and cursing in Hebrew. (I then made a mental note to delete The Jazz Singer from the DVR.) 

Spanoses, I've been thinking about this, and I believe I have a solution. 

Things We Do Like the Dickens

"I was the first one dressed," he said.

It's not a race.

"I was the first one done with dinner," said the other.

You shouldn't eat so fast.

"I'm the winner," they said in a rotating series of blurs and screams and clouds of dust.

We're all winners here.

Everything is competition, from brushing their teeth to pulling on their socks.  It's not a race against the clock nor is my schedule of any consequence.  It is the beating of the other that drives their actions and heralds the subsequent gloating, which in itself is a competition, pitted as it is against the wails of banshees and the agony of defeat.

We're all losers here.

For Reals This Time

The next day, I took Lucas to his first sparring class. This was a big step. He hadn't embraced the martial arts like we thought he would: rather than the steely-eyed focus of a Crouching Tigercub, there was fidgeting, and playing with his belt, and talking to the kid next to him. "It might not be his thing," Beth said on more than one occasion, and I was starting to believe her. Team sports, he loved. He'd recently become fond of lacrosse - I bought us a pair of mini-lacrosse sticks, and we played one-on-one in the yard. He's fierce, smacking me on the hands with the stick, dropping his shoulder and putting it into my hip, whipping the ball into the net with the force and accuracy of a much older kid. This was a tangible thing: you shoot, you score. Tang Soo Do, for the most part, consisted of punching, kicking, and blocking...air. It was all theory, moves performed against imaginary opponents, punctuated with talk of "self-discipline" and ten-counts in Korean. He was bored. The owner of the studio understood - Lucas, he said, loves sparring, and is fearless; some of the other kids don't like the idea of actually facing an opponent. Not Lucas. They do non-contact sparring in the regular classes, and Lucas digs it. (Also, it turns out that he's quite handy with the nunchuks.) Maybe we could try the advanced sparring class - he might do well, he's very competitive, and this might be the thing that turns on the switch.

Get Your Balls Together

 My boys are at the age when just about every bodily function is required comic relief.

Toss in mention of the genitals or your ass and it's a fucking laugh riot to them.

Their days are pepper with words like wiener and whiz or balls, crap and anus that they inadvertently drop in my company.

It's partly my fault because I have a good friend that never aged out of poo poo and pee pee jokes who has been a great source of inspiration for the subject matter of their follies.

But I still wasn't prepared for the onslaught during a recent bowling outing.

We had just been assigned a lane and slipped on our bowling shoes.

I turned and said, "Okay boys, let's get our balls together."

And they fell to pieces.

No stitches.

Pointing each other and laughing while trying desperately to repeat what I just said.

"He said..." said my oldest trailing off into a fit of laughter.

"Get our balls together," said his brother fighting back his squeaky giggle.

The next ten frames of bowling we were inundated with ball jokes.

"Spencer, can you hold my balls for me?" said Cole as he handed his brother a 9 pound marble colored ball.

"Dad, he's holding my BALLS!" and then fits of laughter between the two of them. 

I pick up my ball and it's, "Dad, you've got big balls!!" 

Followed by gut-busting laughter.

I have to admit the whole thing was pretty funny.

The only way I could stop the madness was to change the topic and introduced them to Mianus...

What We're Doing At The Next DadCentric Campout

Though if I know this crowd, the beer that's given out for the prize will be of a much higher quality. 

Kids are a Pain

Before my 30th birthday, my wife -- the older, wiser and more athletic of the two of us -- warned me that once my biological odometer turned that things would start to go wrong with my body. Stupid little activities that never before bothered me would suddenly resort in an avalanche of bills my muscles would struggle to pay.

"Bah!" I said, and downed another Shiner Bock.

A few days after that conversation, I threw my back out swimming in our pool.

In the years since, I have paid more attention to the subtle signs my body sends me to ease up. For example, after years of playing multiple softball games a week, I realized it was time to hang up the cleats shortly after a routine groundball to me at second base turned into an ER visit for seven stitches to close up a split left eyebrow. When the reflexes go, so must you, I sadly must report.

Lapses in judgment, though, sometimes occur. Most times, the blame falls on my kids.

Fathers. Sons. Sports.

There's something inherent about fathers and sons bonding over sports.

I'm no different.

Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right

The internet is divided.  There are sides and opinions and ignorance and bits of slime and slander.  People say stupid shit and things they can't take back.  Feelings are hurt and friendships are lost.  Then there is the matter of money.

It is a war and one side points and laughs in their homes made from glass and the other side scurries, builds and plans.  They are working together, an army of many, and they are drafting.

Free Japan

At the beginning of every summer I start off with a list of things to do with my boys.