Scarring Your Son For Life...For Dummies

I do the best I can as a parent.  Sometimes it is good enough, and sometimes it isn't.  If you are a fan of John Irving, and life's sometimes dark twisted humor, then you probably understand that all children are destined to become incredibly warped and scarred by their parents, regardless of anyone's intentions.  It has always been this way, and will continue to be this way...so, we might as well enjoy it and learn how to see the humor in the ultimate destruction of our children...right?  They'll turn out ok, whether they have our genes, or our nature, our worst fears and traits await us, like a mirror...patiently awaiting us to stare at our broken selves in their faces.  Wondering how in the world I could break such a delicate and beautiful thing, and twist it into something far more fun and infuriating to the average parent.  

If you caught some humor in that paragraph, this post is for you...  On the other hand, if you had visions of me dancing in the dark with Freud and whiskey, there are updated baseball scores here:  www.espn.com.

I helped coach my son's baseball team.  During the end of the season tournament, my son was scheduled to leave on a trip with his grandparents, and would miss the last few games.  My wife reminded me, "Remember this is his last night to play, so make a big deal out it with the team and make sure he gets to say his goodbye's."

After the games, (they played two), I was walking back to the car with my son, and the head coach, when he said, "Well Malcolm, I guess that was your last game of the season."

Doh!   I suck so bad...Horrible Dad awoke from the back of my mind, "you dumbass, you are such a dumbass, oh my, this is hilarious, you are completely insane and intent on breaking your son's poor psyche, you are hilarious my friend".

Tears ensued on the ride home, and I listened to Horrible Dad, and worked to find Compassionate Dad, who was absolutely nowhere to be found inside my guilt ridden head...almost like he was saying "Yeah, I'm out on this one, you idiot".

Fast Forward...

Boy goes on trip with Grandparents and is gone for around three weeks.  He's having fun, hanging out with his cousin at DisneyWorld and enjoying life.  

I'm taking care of his guinea pig.  Frappaccino.

Frappacchino had been with our family for two or three years, and was the first pet my son bought with his own money, and cared for him (most of the time).  A fat little guinea pig, that did all the things guinea pigs do, which is basically nothing.

I had no problem caring for "Pig" as he had come to be known in family circles.  I fed and watered him, played with him a few times during the day, and we had a genuinely wonderful relationship.  I would talk to him about his secret spy missions regarding watching the dog, who loves to abscond with defenseless stuffed animals and sleep in beds when the doors are left open.  Pig's job was to alert me when this happened.  He was pretty bad at it, but enjoyed his job immensely, so I let his performance slide most of the time.  

Feed, water, play, discuss missions....coaching sessions, reprimands for cavorting with the enemy (I think he and the dog had an agreement).

About 5 days before my son would return, I noticed that Pig hadn't touched his food or water.  I wasn't too alarmed, got him out and played with him, he was spry and cuddly, and apologetic about letting the dog sleep in the bed, so I thought he must not be hungry, having gorged himself on food and water over the previous days.

4 days before my son would return, I repeated the check on the pig, who still hadn't eaten, but was still having a good 'ole time, as pigs do, whenever it is they aren't on duty watching for the dog.

2 days before my son would return...

I check on Pig, and he's laying there, spread out on his bedding, not looking too spry.  I pick him up and realize "Houston, we have a problem!".  His breathing had become labored, and his eyes were all crusty, and he didn't really want to move.

Horrible Dad: "You're gonna kill the piiiiiig!, you're gonna kill the piiiiig!  This is awesome, you are gonna kill your boy's pig, and it's gonna be all your fault, man, where is my popcorn and Dr. Pepper, I'll be right back..."

Compassionate Dad: "You got this, he's sick, but, you got the Internets, and you can fix this...if he's terminal, all you gotta do is keeping him alive until the boy gets home, take him to the vet, spend hundreds of dollars on a poorly performing spy, and if he dies, it'll be in your son's arms...no culpability on your part whatsoever."

I was pretty sure Compassionate Dad didn't like Pig, but he gave good advice.

I texted a 911 message to a friend, whose wife is a vet.  Then I took to the internets.

I checked my work schedule, since I work from home, the internet portal and my work portal are next to each other.  I dialed into a conference call and went to work on Guinea Pig Illness Diagnosis 101.  Which was pretty good, those guinea pigs have organized their owners and gotten them some web skillz.  I was able to quickly diagnose an Upper Respiratory Infection based on the symptoms.  Antibiotics needed.

Waiting on friend's vet wife. 

Working on conference call.

Internets:  Try to hand feed and water the ill pig, in order to keep its energy up.

Me:  Sitting in the living room, with a towel, Pig, water bottle (with vitamin C for all those sticklers out there), and a carrot...on a conference call discussing critical defects needed for an initial delivery of software to a very large bank in Eastern U.S.

20 minutes....tick-tock tick-tock....

Me: Sitting in living room, on conference call, now wet, pig shit on towel (and me), getting a little water in him, and he's trying to munch on carrot.

Horrible Dad: "You are actually trying to save him...[munch munch, nom nom, slurp]...I mean you can't make this stuff up, you think you're a vet or something, Pig is toast dude...just admit it, you suck, and you're gonna kill your boy's guinea pig...awesome stuff, you suck!"

Compassionate Dad: "Uhm, this is not going well, maybe the internets will have some more information or training that will help you become a vet in the next 10 minutes or something."  

I left Pig on the towel, (not like he was going anywhere), stopped to actually speak on the conference call for a few minutes, while I further consulted Al Gore's expertise on Guinea Pig URI's.  

Horrible Dad: "Did you catch that part about how URI's travel fast, and you have about 36 hours to get the antibiotics...Pig's dead dude, You killed the Piiiiig, You killed the Piiiig!"

Compassionate Dad: "You can still wait to hear back from the vet and get the antibiotics, just keep water in him and you have a chance."

Horrible Dad: "Yeah, or you can call 968-273-382533."

Compassionate Dad: "That's too many numbers."

Horrible Dad: "you-are-fucked....get it....get it....this is hilarious, why don't you move to Alaska or something, they need things killed there....I'm here all day folks [slurp]."

Me: I'm confused, angry, trying to work, trying to save pig, have pig shit on me, a dying pig, my boy's out of town, my software's in the tank...I'm living the dream.

I pick Pig up again, this time I give him some food pellets, since the carrot isn't working.  Great news, he's trying to eat.  He's weak, but he's working on the pellets.  

Compassionate Dad: "Uhm I think he's trying to swallow them whole, no teeth moving...dude, do something"

Me:  [digging pellets out of tiny guinea pig's mouth]  I think I got it.

Pig shudders, or convulses.  

Me: [On conference call], "I'm gonna have to drop, I've got another...thing, to go to"

I take Pig to the bathroom, where he looks at me with his crusty eyes.

"Oh, no, you are not going to die on me...you have to wait two more days, until boy gets back, you are not gonna screw me like this."

Horrible Dad: "Oh yes he is, and it is all because you suck [chomp, chomp]...I live for this stuff."

Pig convulses heavily, it takes a minute for me to recognize this is what is happening...then goes limp, gasping for breath.

Compassionate Dad: "I think you better do something, you're losing him...this is where professionals would call in help from the crack medical team....do you know guinea pig CPR?"

Me:  No.  [Trying to give some version of CPR to Pig, trying to see if his airway is obstructed]

Horrible Dad: "This is awesome, I'm gonna call some friends, he's giving CPR to a guinea pig!!!  This is better than when you killed his fish over Christmas by turning the Thermostat down to Manitoba to save money...how'd that work out Pig Killer?"

[Text Message:  wife worked early, still asleep]

[Lots of cursing, Pig shaking, squeezing, more cursing, shaking, cursing]

Text Message to Wife: "we're screwed, Pig's dead"

Text Message from Wife: "yup"

RIP Frappaccino

He may not have much...but damn...he gives it all...

I tend to fall on the under side of coaching and competitive discussions, and I've finally put to words where I stand on a couple of things...the memory of an old friend and my father drew me out to write this today.

I've struggled with the concept of competition for a number of years...which, in discussion we could split a room of little league parents and coaches, resulting in a small cataclysmic event in a short while.  

I was a hell of a competitor, and most will tell you that I still am...This isn't about that competition...its about team competition.

The OKC Thunder slogan is "Team is One"...and a good one at that...I'm not a downer on slogans...but...

Team is something other than a slogan, and Trophies aren't things that just sit on shelves.

Team is about you, a picture of you, either now, or in the past.  And what came along with you through the winds of time. 

Team to me...well, that's what I've been thinking about.  Team is about a time with young men that are gone.  They're fat now, most of them, or most of us, anyway...anything but young, and the time has definitely passed us by.  Enough, though with my worthless nostalgia, and start with a little story:

You-shoot and Brick were two kids that played recently on a basketball team that I coached.  I name them appropriately, and imply no shame to them, only as a descriptive term and leave them nameless.  You-shoot never even wanted the ball, and would give it back, saying "you shoot".  I don't have to expand on Brick, he was just a great kid that threw the ball at the orange ring with the net.  We had a non-competitive league, which I've heard other coaches remark about as developmental, or a feel good league.  Personally speaking, I'm a better player and a better coach than any of the men I've ever heard say such things.  I'm an aging athlete that has come to realize the value of elevating a human being through sports represents far more attainment than any all-star, or select team ever could.

Out team scored more points than a couple of others, but most days, we were on the struggling end of playing.  I was proud of the better kids on our team, because they learned, from me, that our team was about getting shots for everyone, including You-shoot and Brick [something I could have learned at a much younger age].  You-shoot generally wanted to find the most effective solution for the problem, passing to one of the better shooters...tremendously smart kid.  You-Shoot even took himself out once, saying he didn't feel well...until his dad made him admit that "the team had a better chance of winning if I sat down".  Brick, on the other hand,  learned the value system of our society at an early age describing his failure through the words, "I realize I won't score many points, but I want to learn to rebound and play defense".  His words betrayed him...he knew his failure would be imminent if he didn't score.  Defense and rebounding are concepts above our age group, though I laud his dad for working hard to show him more than scoring.  Brick and You-shoot struggled through most every game, but they clocked in, and played the games in practice and I made sure they had fun doing it.

In our final game, we continued our strategy...which drew ire from my assistant from time to time...understandably...I was aiming at a much higher picture, and honestly didn't feel the need to communicate that much about it.  We scored as many points as the other team and played hard.  We worked the ball around and as you can imagine, You-shoot and Brick both scored a couple of times, by creating their own shots... which helped us come out a few points on top (though we supposedly weren't counting).  Both teams and the people in the stands jumped out of their seats each time one of them scored...they knew those kids, it was a small league.  That's a trophy.  That's a team. 

Team is about my high school baseball team... a bunch of guys, some of whom couldn't stand each other, coming together for a common cause.  Team was Alan telling coach we were hitting soft tosses, while we were really playing football in the gym, (go figure).  Team was Aaron apologizing for something he had done before the whole team to keep from getting kicked off...and Team was us forgiving him and welcoming him back.  Team was us learning that our coaches contract hadn't been renewed...and that he'd be leaving at the end of the school year.  Team was the guys that didn't really ever get to play much, but when they did...the whole bench wanted to see them hit and score.  Team was goofing off on the bus on the way back from games where we lost horribly...or distracting the coach at the quick stop, so one of us could buy tobacco.  Team, in a single scene, was a guy who wanted to punch my face in a few days before, talking me under a fly ball that I couldn't see because of the lights...right underneath it.  I never saw it until it hit my glove.  

You can go see the trophy we won that particular night, a trophy we weren't expected to win.  I'm pretty sure it still sits down there somewhere.  I don't need to go see it, I lived it.  I know what it meant then, and I know what it means now...that together, we can accomplish things that we cannot do alone.

I hope that is what our kids are learning in sports.  It doesn't appear that way from the outside.  From the outside, it appears that most of the teams I've seen are working very hard to find 5 Kevin Durant's and Russell Westbrook's to fill the court, or 9 Josh Hamilton's, Albert Pujols', or Derek Jeter's to put on the field.  

Who do they stand up and cheer for, when there are no Never-shoot's, or Brick's on their team.  When each weekend is another weekend tournament for yet another trophy?  What exactly are they learning about being on a team with people of different skill levels?  Are they learning the value of sacrifice of personal glory to give that light to another?

I learned quite a bit about life in sports...when I was a kid.  Some kids need help scoring.  Some kids are better than you.  Some the same as you...but grew up in a broken home.  Some kids had awesome ability, but never had owned a glove before in their life.  Some kids I knew borrowed uniforms from kids the year before.  Some kids had more expensive gear than our school could afford, and they still stunk.

I grew up as a Warrior, from my high school, and while the school has continued to grow well past the size when I was there...I still keep up with it when I can.  I look forward to seeing the people that helped me become better....a better me.  Becoming a Warrior was trophy enough for me.  I suppose that's the trophy I want for my son for participating....a better him.  He doesn't need a ribbon, nor want one...he keeps his little trophies, but doesn't really care for them much.  

I suppose I'm not asking for non-competitive sports...I think I'm asking for coaches that compete at coaching their kids...gauging their win / loss record on how far each kid progresses not on games won or lost.  Focusing on the kids..asking them, "did they have fun?  real fun?"  Teaching them to have fun when they lose.  Nobody goes undefeated forever..that's rule #1...and every coach should make it their mantra to make sure that no kid ever goes 0 and forever.

I got on this thought from a man known as Old Ben Parker...who once said to me, "Scotty, that boy ain't got much out there, and he's sure funny to watch....but, damn, he gives it all, every shot."

Of course he was talking about a father of four at an old man's alumni game...but I think he was talking more than just basketball....miss you Ben.

Church League Basketball and Why I'm not a Contender anymore...

Middle of the third quarter, we are winning...and a guy bumps me underneath the goal while I'm up in the air for a rebound.  I don't fall, but I get really irritated.  Next time down, he bumps me again...

I go to center court, as they bring up the ball.  "That's my ball", I said, pointing to it.  I took the ball from him and made a layup.  

Back to center court...scene repeats itself.

And....again....

My team calls a timeout.  One of my best friends in the world, at the time, meets me on the court and says, "Why don't you sit down and rest a minute."

I look back at my team, and they are all down on the defensive end...looking at their shoes, or the lights, but not at me.  

Walking to the bench, a guy from the other team, Jim, stops me.  "Scott, you're good, but your up 45 points man, give me a break."

The score was 65 - 20.

As I sat down, my wife leans down to me and says, "Look over there...".  The other team's stands were filled.   My wife was the only person sitting on our side.  "I've never been more embarrassed to be your wife....that kid is thirteen."

So I was 30.  What difference does that make...I thought.  

The fact that I was overly competitive had dawned on me once or twice, but never had I seen it bare it's teeth like that night.  Something inside of me broke.  I was ashamed.  

Fast forward 10 years later...

I haven't played basketball for over 3 years.  Of the last 2 games I've played, I wound up having micro-fracture surgery on my right knee, followed by 6 weeks on a couch...and 9 months of rehab...only to come back and get undercut and break my wrist in the next game back.  6 weeks in a cast, and another 2 months of rehab.  

"I'm not gonna lecture you Scott, but you might think about slowing down just a bit", the doctor had said.

I'm not against competition, not at all.  But I couldn't answer a question I'd come to ask myself, "What, exactly are you trying to accomplish?"  I realized that I am against a rabid need to win.  I see it in college athletics.  I see it in high school athletics.  I see it in little league. 

I wonder if we've seen the death of true competition.  To compete is to put forth your best, lay it out there and see...check, or test yourself, on faring against others.  Combining a need to win with competition creates an imbalance in your life...you're trying to feed yourself on something intended for enjoyment.  You compete, you win, you lose, you shake your opponents hand, or give him a hug.  When you need to win, and don't, you  turn inside of yourself...if not checked, you can turn hateful.

I turned to athletics as a coping mechanism, for some dark years of my life...couple that with the Lord's blessing of a fairly athletic body with good coordination, and you wake up one day as a beast of sorts.  

Sports should be fun.  I could cartwheel onto a soapbox about professional sports, or little league select teams, but that's not my bag.  I don't know how to fix things of that magnitude.  

The last few years that I played basketball, I focused on the latter part of Michael Jordan's career.  He became an excellent leader, and a player who made his whole team better.  The days of Michael taking the last shot, in a clear out situation were long gone.  He spent time on the bench as well.   

Life has so much to offer, if you actually go and live "the life" part of a life...  Tucking yourself into a cocoon of  minor league, or neighborhood league, or city league stardom simply isn't worth it...if, that is, it costs you as much as it did me.  

I play golf now, and run (or at least I say I do).  I play against the course, and against myself.  Only rarely will I actually admit that I'd like to beat the person I'm with...  I'd also be honest to say that in golf...it is fun to want your partners to hit good shots, and to make putts...everybody can enjoy it.

It isn't that I subscribe to the notion that we can all be winners, though I think it is true of me.  When you enter into the ultra competitive world of athletics, Who you know, or Who your dad knows, or What team you are on, and a whole host of other non-sports related issues factor into the game.  I long for the days of my youth, when my country town had a little league, and we played the other towns around...nobody switched teams, nobody drafted...there were no select teams....just a bunch of 8-10 year olds wishing their uncle would give them some chewing tobacco...and that they wouldn't get caught.  

I've never beaten myself at golf.  I've never beaten a course...even one that's only 13 years old.

great dane on a raft...with my folks...sorry, its just a deep day.

I awoke this morning to the news that some time last night, my favorite living poet, and acquaintance, had slipped past the grasp of the cancer that raged his body.  I'm currently at Christmas Holiday in Florida, with my family.

It must be such a relief and such acute anguish on Christmas Eve.  The irony of a long battle with cancer, a husband, wife and kids all understanding the stakes...that his only reprieve from pain will be when he closed his eyes forever.

I pondered my distant friend and his new home, over a view of a distraught and stormy sea today.

The ocean has always entranced me.  She has an eternal shade to her costume, that makes her appear as a Patrick Nagel painting...beautiful and mysterious, unable to be known. Distant and untouchable, yet the ocean's deadly nature beckons the image of a wild animal, more than any mistress.  She will kill you in a moment, without the interruption of a single wave on any beach.  Perhaps the deadly nature grabs my attention.  I see into forever when I scan the horizon and see nothing but water.

Morbid or not, it reminds me of death.  The ultimate calm, quiet, nothing.  The final doorway, through which we all will pass.

The twisted part of me can never be held at bay for more than a few hours at best...and I think its high time I rolled with how the Maker made me, rather than fighting it.

The sea draws upon me the image of my own dead, mother, father, brother, and most recently, my favorite Great Dane...traveling on a raft, upon the seas.  They travel together in harmony, awaiting the arrival of another, in a day, in a year, in a decade...they are infinitely patient.  They have no desire, nor remorse for those that join their ranks.  They are dead...but they are special, because they are My Dead.  I talk to my Maker about my dead.  I visit with them, trusting that the Power that made me can be trusted in love to get the messages across.

It has taken me many miles, nautical miles if we may, to understand the nature of death (as I do now, and it continues to unfold).  I fought long and hard to make peace with my dead.  I'd recommend it to anyone, as I don't see how any peace can come without permission to leave and commitment to communion.  It has helped me transition the waters of my deeper regions from distraught and stormy to a more pleasant roll...perhaps someday I'll reach a wonderful calm.

Until then, I'll hold my picture of my parents, my brother, Moose, and perhaps a coffee drinking poet, to ride along the waters of nowhere on their way to forever.

FS