DadCentric

That's My Daughter (In The Water)

It occurred to me, as Zoe shrieked in terror and clawed at my face in a desperate attempt to save herself from a watery death, that perhaps she was not enjoying the swimming lesson. The moms sitting poolside were giving me that look, the one usually reserved for people who fart in church or who get caught pulling the ears off of live rabbits. I gave them my best "fuck you" smile. 

Sports and Physical Activity have been on the agenda as of late. When your 19-month daughter can point at the remote and squeal "TEEVEE! TEEVEE!", that's a harbinger of childhood doom: juvenile obesity, Wii addiction, and the eventual onset of Adult Bravo Reality TV Fandom. So we made the push: the kids WILL get outside and play more, and they WILL like it. And both have responded: Lucas, much to my delight, has shown some honest-to-God skill with the rugby ball. He can kick, is learning to throw a decent pass, and has a real desire to stomp people on the head. (My calls to the Cal Rugby scouts have not been returned.) Last night I picked up a kid's lacrosse set; he'd been on me for weeks to learn how to play "the cross". Since I have no idea how to use a lacrosse stick, I'm thinking of hiring a tutor. (I hear Steve Stifler's available.) Zoe, meanwhile, enjoys toddling around the yard and has a little football of her own; she likes rolling it to the dog, who responds by licking himself. 

The swimming lessons came into play when she showed a real love of the ocean; this was on our recent trip to Florida, with its warm sun and warmer water. I took her out into the waves and she dug it, splashing, squealing (in delight, not horror), coming up laughing after going under, giving me hope that she'd be the next Lisa Andersen. Beth signed us up for the Mommy (AHEM, YMCA, it's 2009) and Me Swim Class. We had high hopes that she would immediately start swimming around like one imagines that baby on the Nirvana album cover doing. Chase that dollar on the hook, Zo'!

How You Play The Game

This whole "not keeping score / everyone gets a trophy" concept of entry-level kids' sports has always torn me both ways. Sure, it's nice to protect our children for as long as possible from the reality that losing is a real kick in the ol' castanets but it always makes think back to that line in The Incredibles where Mr. Incredible complains about how society keeps "creating new ways to celebrate mediocrity."

I think about this often now that I am a youth sports coach. Partially because all the kids seem to know the score anyway, so I'm always wondering why am I pretending it doesn't exist, but mostly because this concept allegedly encourages some children's continued participation in physical activity. Unfortunately, these are usually the clueless spazzes who should get a leg up on being IT analysts and fashion designers.

Fatherhood in a Moment

"That looks like a DadCentric moment," yelled my neighbor as he approached the fence.

"This?" I answered.  "This is a tax write-off."

"Or a Norman Rockwell painting," he added.

"All I'm missing is a pipe," I said. 

We chatted for a couple of minutes and I promised him that I wouldn't use his name in the post, what with the witness protection thing and all, and then I returned to the game of catch that I was playing with my 5-year-old son.

Catching was optional.

In a Bar with Women Who Toss T-shirts for Paychecks: A DadCentric Exclusive

You see them at major sporting events: a mostly female group of wholesome, well-scrubbed 20-somethings outfitted in the home team's gear. They chuck T-shirts into the crowd, host trivia contests on the Jumbotron and fight off the drunken lechery of fans.

You ask: Who are these people?

How did they get these sweet gigs?

Is this a profession that's right for my child?

Secrets are revealed in this exclusive interview with a couple members of the "Party Patrol" that roams CitiField, the home of your New York Mets.

DadCentric Gets A Facelift

Dear Readers: over the next couple of weeks, the good people at Sweet Blog are going to be working their magic and giving this site a much-needed overhaul. So if things look weird/wonky, don't panic and don't email us; it's all part of the Master Plan. Like the one the Cylons had. Only ours is going to make sense and have a resolution that unlike Battlestar: Galactica's will be awesome and not completely suck. (FUCK I am still angry about that last episode. Need to let it go. But can't.)

And speaking of magic, please welcome our newest contributor, the eye and brain behind Pacing The Panic Room, Ryan Marshall. He'll be posting his words and pictures, and will add some class to the joint. And because we are a classy operation, here is a video reminding soccer dads and moms that soccer is really an incredibly dangerous sport which should require a helmet.

This Is Not An April Fool's Post

I get a lot of crazy e-mails forwarded to me by friends and readers. A lot of them are clearly fake, but every so often one comes along that is just so weird it has to be true. I figured this one was the real deal, just based on my recent experiences with some, ah, enthusiastic soccer parents and coaches in Lucas' Pee-Wee Soccer League. (There's just something so heartwarming about losers who peaked in high school living vicariously through their five-year-olds.) So, courtesy of my buddy Bob, here's a letter from the coach of Scituate Soccer Club Team 7 to the team's parents (and no, Team 7 is not the name that Coach had in mind). Two things to keep in mind: this is a team of 7-year-old girls, and the refs in question? They're 12. The letter's authentic, as you'll see following the Coach's actual and very inspiring words. (I did not edit for spelling/grammar, BTW. The guy's a regular John Feinstein.)

"Congratulations on being selected for Team 7 (forest green shirts) of the Scituate Soccer Club! My name is Michael and I have been fortunate enough to be selected to coach what I know will be a wonderful group of young ladies. Chris *** will also be coaching and I expect the ever popular Terry to return to the sidelines. Our first game will be Saturday April 4 at 10:00AM. There will be a half hour of skills followed by a 1 hour game, so total time will be 1.5 hours. All games will be played on the fields in the front of the High School. Each player will be required to wear shin guards and cleats are recommended but not required. A ball will be provided to each player at the first meeting, and each player should bring the ball to games and practices. There is no set practice time allotted for the U8 teams, but I will convene with the coaches to determine the best time and place. If there are cancellations due to rain, all notices will be posted via the Scituate Soccer Club website, no calls will be made (though I will try to send an email). Attached is the Schedule and Code of Conduct. After listening to the head of the referees drone on for about 30 minutes on the dangers of jewelry (time which I will never get back), no player will be allowed to play with pierced ears, hairclips, etc. We used to tape the earings, but that practice is no longer acceptable. Please let me know if your child has any health issues that I need to be aware of. My home phone is 781 XXX XXXX, my cell number is 781 XXX XXXX, and I check my email frequently. According to my wife, my emails get too wordy, so for those of you read too slowly, are easily offended, or are too busy, you can stop here. For the others……

Writing On The Wall

Shortly after qualifying for the championship game of the 9-year-old girls' indoor soccer league, Thing 1 came running up, flushed with excitement. I braced for her to try to hoist me -- Head Coach Daddy -- on her little shoulders.

 

Instead, she hit full stop and said breathlessly, "Can I go into the bathroom to read what's written on the lockers?"

Dear Brett Favre -- The End

You'd think that after all that gushing I did over you at the season's start that I would be pretty upset right now.

You know, about how the Jets, led by you, choked away an 8-3 record following consecutive on-the-road victories over the fearsome Pats and at-the-time undefeated Titans.

About how you and your teammates blew making the playoffs in that final regular season game.

To our longtime hated division rival, no less.

A rival, I might add, led by the quarterback we dumped for you.

A QB named "Chad."

For crying out loud. Chad!

Nevertheless, I'm good with it. Honestly.

As a Jets fan from the waning Joe Namath days on, I'm used to the team sucking. And as a Mets fan during the baseball season, I'm now totally accustomed to such last-month-of-the-season collapses.

Moreover, Brett, I'm fine because of something my son said.

When asked by his uncle last week what was his favorite football team, my 6-year-old unhesitatingly said:

"The Giants."

Good for you, son.

Been nice knowing ya, Brett. Feel free to leave this season off the resume you submit to Canton, OK?

When Fatherhood and Sports (and Bad Mushrooms) Collide

I was watching the Nickelodeon show "Yo Gabba Gabba" with my daughter recently to see what all the hype was about. Basically I was trying to find out whether it had any educational value at all or was most likely better suited for a group of stoned college kids. The jury is still out on that one.

Anyway, I was just about to turn the show off when I looked up and saw perennial NBA All-Star and Phoneix Suns Power Forward Amare Stoudemire doing some crazy dance on the show. The whole thing was so weird and trippy that I had to post it here for all of you fellow dads. Check it out.

Call me old-fashioned but I can't imagine Larry Bird doing this in a million years!

A Karate Man Bruises On The Inside

The first week of 6th grade sucked. A new school, and I was a geeky kid with a bowl haircut and glasses, big brown tortoise-shell framed glasses. Bullymeat. I knew that going in, and on that Wednesday I was told in no uncertain terms by Jeff T. and Gary M. that they would be waiting for me after class that day, the goal being to kick my ass in front of an audience. I was a fairly sharp kid, possessing the sense of humor/irony that would serve as a lifejacket as I grew older. I did the math. Me against two bigger kids while a bunch of other kids watched and did nothing = broken glasses, teeth, soul. I didn't know how to fight (that would come later), so I did the smart thing, told the principal, and had my mom pick me up from class that day. And the day after. And the day after that. I would eventually discover a back exit that opened up on a cornfield, across from which sat my house. It was a straight shot. I sprinted across that field for weeks. Doing so helped me to become a better soccer player. Doing so made me feel weak, a victim, a coward.

The world never quites lowers itself to your expectations; I did eventually strike up a friendship of sorts with both of my would-be asskickers (we all ended up on our school's soccer team, and a little wit goes a long way; I had a pretty deep well of Polish jokes, which were all the rage in 1980). I forgave, but did not forget - I knew both guys for a couple of years, and every so often, out of the blue, in the lunchroom or on the soccer field, I'd think about putting my fist through Jeff T. and Gary M.'s skulls. Hurting them. Taking back a piece of myself that they stole.

A few weeks ago, we enrolled Lucas in karate class. We had kicked the idea around for a while, but it was when we took Lucas to see that Clone Wars flick that the decision was made to sign him up. By the way, business owners and marketing types? If you ever want a sure-fire way of drawing new customers, tie in your product/service to Star Wars. See, at the movie theater, some students and teachers from Lucas' karate school were there in the lobby, putting on a demonstration and passing out invitations to the karate school's Free Learn To Be A Jedi Knight Night . "Karate", read the flyer, "can teach you discipline, patience, and fighting skills - JUST LIKE A JEDI!" Of course Lucas immediately glommed on to this and asked us if he could "go to Jedi School". (See how that worked? You know who'd really benefit from this? Dentists. Dr. Ira Goldstein, Jedi Dentist! I'm telling you, 10-year-old boys and 39 year-old shut-ins alike would line up for blocks to get a Jedi Root Canal.)

The first night was a success - Lucas did some karate stuff, and watched, transfixed, as one of the teachers did a sword demonstration that would have put Darth Maul to shame. And...this was where the hooks were set...he listened. To the instructor's every word. Sat still. Stood. Bowed. We whipped out the check book. There was a brief moment of concern when, after the class had ended, Lucas asked us when he would get to learn how to use a lightsaber. "Well," we said, "that will happen when you are older and have learned all of the other Jed-er, karate stuff." Figuring we'd cross that bridge when we come to it.

I have to say that, several weeks later, we're convinced that this was a great thing for the boy. He loves going, and we've noticed a significant change - fewer tantrums, and an eagerness to obey that wasn't there before. And something else - the kids earn stripes on their belts for learning new things and being good listeners. Lucas practically beams with pride when he gets a new stripe, as do we. Self-discipline and self-confidence are worth their weight in gold. As is the ability to give some bullying asshole a flying spin kick to the jaw.