DadCentric

Our Side of the Mountain

My boys like the complaining.  Car rides are too long.  Walking hurts legs.  This Chateau LeBlanc is supposed to be served slightly chilled, not room temperature.  They never want to go anywhere.  Once they are there they never want to leave.  They never want mustard on their burger unless you make it without it.  They want interest on any money I may borrow. You know, all the standards. It's kind of pathetic.

So it was against all things better judgment and common sense that we took them on a hike.  Their first hike.  A long hike.  A hike filled with switchback trails and steep paths.  A hike that many adults have complained about.  Actually, it was kind of an accident.

Do you know what the boys said?

Split, Maybe Spared

With one frame left, all that stood between me and one truly amazing score were six pins and a crying 7-year-old.

Not a memory I was aiming for when I decided to take advantage of our local bowling alley offering kids two free games every day this summer. (Note: This deal is irrefutable proof that the industry's profits come from the use of industrial-grade "cheese" sauce to cover all "food" from the snack bar and the rental of semi-disinfected clown shoes.)

Do. Or Do Not. There Is No Try.

Lucas continues down the Path of The Martial Artist; this past weekend, he tested for his Orange Belt. He approached his test with the blissfully ignorant confidence of a five-year-old boy; it was clear that he thought the test was a rubber-stamp process, a "gimme". His do-jon is not Cobra Kai; the kids learn to kick, punch, and block, and he's demonstrated that tang soo do is not a game, but they do so in a supportive, encouraging environment (just like the brochure says). Prior to Saturday he was unaware of what a test actually is: in the world of preschool athletics, everyone is a winner, everyone gets a trophy, and no one gets to lose. Beth and I were nervous. We were sure, even if he was not, that he wasn't going to pass. There were a few things that he hadn't yet mastered, and without that mastery... he'd experience his first major failure.

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?"