DadCentric

I Can FINALLY Turn a Profit On the Little Freeloader

"You're gonna need a bigger boat."

One more thing to add to the ever expanding list of Shit You Really Don't Want To Talk To Your Four-Year-Old About: shark attacks. When your goal is to have your son grow up to be the next Joel Tudor, and your daughter to be the next Lisa Andersen, this is not a welcome development.

Not that I'm in the least bit concerned - even though David Martin was killed at the surf break that was my go-to spot when we lived in Solana Beach. Saw lots of dolphins in the three years that I frequented that break, nary a shark. Hell, I spent 7 years working for SeaWorld, spouting statistics and anecdotes about how galactically UNlikely you are to be killed by a shark here in sunny San Diego (as it happens, you have a greater chance of being killed by lightning, bees, falling airplane parts, and domesticated pigs than a great white). In fact, I surfed yesterday evening, two days after the attack. At sunset. Without a lifeguard around. Or any other surfers in the water. (I'll admit - it was a bit spooky. After I got out of the water, I saw a gray dorsal fin break the surface, right where I had been. A dolphin, of course, and, of course, had I seen that same fin in the water while I was out there bobbing around, I'm quite certain I would have fouled my wetsuit.)

Luckily, Lucas has no fear of the ocean, and luckier still, he remained blissfully ignorant of the tragedy. And I intended to keep it that way. And so it was that we were driving down the coast highway on Saturday afternoon, me gazing wistfully out at the ocean, lovely waves rolling in made even lovelier by slight offshore breezes - waves that were completely empty, unridden, due to the circling helicopters and lifeguard trucks that were on the lookout for the great white. "Look at how nice that looks," I said to Beth. "Stupid shark."

"What? What shark, daddy?"

Fuck.

Beth was thinking quickly. "Oh, daddy...is telling a joke. A joke from a movie that we saw. About a shark."

"Oh," said Lucas. "What movie?"

"Well, it's a movie called Jaws, and it's about a shark."

"Can I watch it?"

"Well," I said, "it's a grownup movie. When you're old enough, believe me, we'll watch it."

"Yeah", added Beth. "It's very scary, and it has lots of bad words."

"Oh," said Lucas. "Do they say 'stupid'?"

"Yep," we said.

"Oh," said Lucas. "And 'dammit'?"

"Yeah," we said, "but remember, you're not supposed to say that word..."

"And 'fuckers'?"

Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies....

Maybe It's Just Semantics

We're members of the local Y.M.C.A. because 1) it's cheap and 2) it's close enough to where I can wad up my monthly payment and throw it at the front desk from my lawn.  I would categorize it as a "pretty good deal".  $50 a month gets my entire family a pool, a gym, and a child-watch facility to watch the young ones while my wife and I hit happy hour work out.  Granted, we've yet to take advantage of the - somehow elusive - ability to "get yourself clean" and "have a good meal" like the Village People were apparently able to do and, quite frankly, neither my wife nor I are jumping stumps to "hang with the boys".  In fact, I don't believe I've even seen many boys around there.  Graying, wrinkled men?  Absolutely.  Lots of [grand]moms?  Yes.  Which brings me to my point...

What the hell were they singing about?  They make the Y sound like a cross between Welfare and a Sandals Resort.  First of all, nothing's free.  According to the Village People, it's a place one should go when one is short on dough.  I call bullshit.  I was late on a payment once and I was seriously in fear for my life.  Short on dough will get your kneecaps smacked, my friend.

Second, I've yet to find "many ways to have a good time".  In fact, I haven't even found one.  And it's not from a lack of looking, I assure you.  I read the flyers and posters.  Group discussions on menopause and free goiter screenings aren't fun in anyone's book.  Again, I call bullshit.  Oh...the "good meal" thing they sing about?  Complete fabrication too.  I can't even find a vending machine in the place for a pack of Nekot Wafers.

They also state [ad nauseum] that it's fun to stay there.  I beg to differ.  Simply put - you can't stay there. There are no bunk beds, cots, or any other amenities of that nature.  Hell, I showed up one morning to find 3 homeless guys crashed out in the courtyard and spent the next 2 hours holed up in a back room while the S.W.A.T. team took them out one by one.  I guess they need to clarify the word "fun". 

I'm not bitching.  Really, I'm not.  Like I said, it's a good deal.  It's just not as good a deal as they said.

When Football and Gossip Collide!

Like many households around the country, my wife and I engage in a battle of the remote control that can sometimes take legendary proportions.  Most of our battles occur in the early evening.  While she wants to watch "Entertainment Tonight" or "Access Hollywood," I'm constantly trying to switch over to "SportsCenter" or "The Jim Rome Show."  It can get damn ugly sometimes.

So imagine my pleasure when I found myself alone for a few hours on late Saturday afternoon. The wife and the kid were on an all-day Ikea run so I had the remote all to myself.

I settle into the couch and start watching the Georgia-Alabama football game.  Classic SEC battle. The two physical teams have battled into overtime and Georgia has the ball with a chance to win. In the midst of this tense moment, football analyst Mike Patrick apparently loses his mind and starts having the weirdest conversation in sports broadcasting history. I can't even begin to explain how weird it is so here's the transcript:

While the crowd of 95,000 spectators in the crowd is going crazy and screaming at the top of their lungs, Patrick turns to fellow broadcaster Todd Blackledge and says "I've got an important question."

Blackledge: "Go ahead."
Patrick: "What's Britney doing with her life?"
Blackledge: "Who?"
Patrick: "Britney."
Blackledge: "Britney who?"
Patrick: "Britney Spears. What's she doing with her career?"
Blackledge: "Why do we care at this point? Is she here?"
Patrick: "No, I don't think so."
Blackledge: "Is she even a football fan?"
Patrick: "Oh, I'm sure she is."

During this exchange, the ball is snapped and Georgia scores WINNING TD!

One of the best college football games of the season and Mike Patrick is talking about Britney Spears and her career?  What the fuck?  Does he not know about the separation of church and state?   If I want to fucking worry about Britney Spears' career (which I don't,) I'll tune into "The Insider," alright?  I certainly don't want to hear about it during overtime of the Georgia-Alabama game!

This is why I don't take my wife to football games.  While I'm watching the action on the field, she'll turn to me and say something like, "You know, I really don't like the Redskins cheerleaders outfits.  Fuschia is so out this year!"

Maybe Mike Patrick can come watch Giants games with us.  The two of them can talk about Lindsay Lohan while I slowly bury my head in a plate of cheese fries!

The Miracle League

This Saturday, I begin my head coaching career. I will be the skipper of Lucas' t-ball team; in order to prepare for the daunting task of instructing three-year-olds in the fine art of America's Pastime, I've been playing catch with the kid, reading Moneyball, and practicing my cat-herding skills. Lucas is quite the little jock: he loves kicking the soccer ball, tossing the football, playing hoops with his pint-sized basketball set ("From DOWNTOWN!!!", he yells, upon draining a shot from Three-Foot Land). His excitement is really contagious, and so I will be Coach Daddy once again, and will be providing you with weekly reports from the dugout.

I will be honest; I like sports, played a few, but have never really been a Sports Guy. Part of it has to do with the fact that today, more than ever, it seems that so many athletes and their coaches really are doing their best to suck the joy out of competition. Lest we become jaded, here's a story that illustrates why these simple, often silly games can be so important.

Learning The Essentials

The kid wanted to help. I get all verklempt watching this.

Let The Countdown to Rodriguez Begin!

Since it's now a matter of hours until the odious Barry Bonds breaks Aaron's record, I thought I'd repost my thoughts on the guy - this post ran last year, but my thoughts on him haven't changed. One thing that really bugs - there's an excellent chance that he'll do it today in San Francisco (how cool would it be if the Marlins opted to pitch around him every time he stepped up to the plate?). Flip side - if he doesn't, the Giants go to L.A. for a three-game stand, and then they come down here to San Diego (where we loves us some Barry). I envision a Dodger or Padre fan catching that record-breaking ball, whipping out a Sharpie and drawing a big asterix on it, and then tossing it back on to the field, to the delight of all. (Can you imagine that? People here would go nuts, I tell you. They'd throw a ticker-tape parade for that fan.)

So screw Bonds. Stay healthy, A-Rod!

Got The Life

The perfect day: after work, picked up Beth and Lucas and headed across the street the beach, surfed the new longboard to the point of exhaustion, played with the kid in the waves immediately following, zipped over to the grocery store for barbecue fare, then back home where I cooked a rockin' feast of jerk pork tenderloin with mango chutney, pear salad, and corn-on-the-cob.

Afterwards, we sat at the table, spent, Beth using her fingernail in an attempt to dislodge a corn kernal that had wedged itself between Lucas' two front teeth.

"Did you ever think", she wondered aloud, "that one day you'd be sitting around picking food out of someone else's teeth?"

I paused to ponder this. "Not in this context, no."

Hey, That's Today?

I was cruising through my feeds, reading blog after blog after blog, and I started to notice a theme.  That theme was Mother's Day.  Apparently, every single person who blogs has had, at one point or another, a mother.  Who knew?

We here at DadCentric have had a hand (among other things) in creating some May customers for Hallmark.  I figured one of us here must have made a little post mentioning the holiday.  Nope.  We're men, people.  We don't always think about doing the nice thing.  Sometimes we like to watch basketball and drink beer on a Sunday, regardless of the holiday.  Come on, it's the playoffs! (Go Suns!)

That said, we're in the business of making moms, it's what we do (or did).  We should be strong enough to suck it up and throw a shout out on a day that honors them.  That's good business.

It's also heartfelt and sincere.  On behalf of the lads, Happy Mother's Day to all of you moms out there.  Hope your day was wonderful.

Makes pitching inside a bit tough

I have something to say, but I'm afraid I might offend some of you.

Wow, I almost wrote that entire sentence with a straight face.  Actually, I'm not sure offend is the right word.  Some of you might agree with me and some of you will rail on and on about how good it is for the kids.  Anyway....

I don't get t-ball.

Maybe it's because I didn't play as a child.  It wasn't an option when I was growing up.  Not in my town at least.  No, I learned how to play ball the old fashioned way -- in the side yard as my father taunted me.  I kid, I kid.  My father pitched to my brother and I for hours on end repeating "keep your eye on the ball" with every toss.  Most times he escaped blistering line shots because, well, we sucked.  Other times, when we actually listened to the "keep your eye on the ball" mantra, he would need to call on those lightning fast, catlike reflexes or risk never being able to have additional children.  Other times, we spent time learning how to catch and field using pitchbacks, playing rundown using curbstone corners as bases or finely honing that hand-eye coordination playing halfball or stickball - it's a Northeast thing.

My friends and I started playing organized ball at around 7.  We started in farm league, practicing and playing games wearing our Toughskins and t-shirts with the sponsor on the back.  Weekends were spent in vacant lots or on the field at the elementary school we attended.  There were usually enough kids around to field two entire teams, maybe three.  Hell, I know two families who alone could have fielded two teams with a bullpen and base coaches.  And we played for hours.  And hours.  Play a game and the losers sit.  Did I say losers?  Yes, yes I did.  Because we always...ALWAYS...knew the score.

Which brings me back to t-ball.  I just don't get it.  Maybe it's because I'm from a different era when you knew the score.  You tried to strike guys out.  You always knew who was covering second for the double play.  And you knew who the cut-off man was.  Allowing a team to bat around was bad.  Being the team to bat around was good.  There were only nine players on the field at once.  Being on the receiving end of a slaughter rule sucks huge moose...well, you know what I mean.

Many of you will say, "Well, it's good for younger children."  You might be right about that.  But, by the same token, do we want 4- or 5-year-olds playing organized sports?  When I was 5, we made up our own rules for the most part.  Then again, at 4 or 5 you barely have an understanding of the concept of sharing and your attention span is as long as that of a gnat.  Isn't the infield fly rule a bit much?  Have you ever tried to explain the Mendoza line to a six-year-old?

Maybe I'll be singing a different tune when Little Dub starts making noise about playing something.  If it is t-ball, I plan to go by Danny's rules.  Then again, given his tornado traits, maybe he'll prefer violence with grace.