Sports and Parenting

[Soundtrack for this post: Aimee Mann’s The Forgotten Arm]

[Beer for this post: Brooklyn Brewery’s East India Pale Ale]

I was sitting at a table around the Christmas before last with Anne’s family and we were talking about Carver and his cousin Ryan playing sports. Ryan’s mom, Anne’s sister-in-law, was saying that Ryan would not be allowed to play football. I have a feeling that Anne would love to say the same thing about Carver, but it wouldn’t be true. Carver will play football, at least for a time, because I really want him to.

I played organized baseball for many years, but I never did play organized football despite talking about it a few times with my dad and my friend Chad’s parents. I was recruited heavily to play on my High School football team—my ninth grade P.E. teacher raved about my football and general physical abilities considering my size, at the time I was 205 pounds when the average guy in my class was probably 150, and I was still very quick, I have little doubt I would’ve been a monster of a fullback and linebacker—but football conflicted with Band, and I wasn’t going to give up Band for anything. There are parts of me that wonder what would’ve happened had I played football, would I have been as good as I like to think? But I also have a hard time thinking that I didn’t make the right decision; Band provided me with music, a huge amount of fun, great friends, my first love, and my first real school-centered community. I don’t see how I could’ve had it better.

So when I say I really want Carver to play football, I imagine many people will think it is the typical dad-trying-to-live-through-his-son situation. But I don’t think that’s it at all. I want Carver to play football because I love football, and I want to share that love with him. I also want him to learn to play music. If the time comes when he has to choose between music and football (or whatever), I would never begrudge him his choice. But I want him to experience both.

To me, football is the ultimate team sport, and I love it with an obsessive passion. Why would I not want to share that with my son?

Golfing with My Dad

My dad is an obsessive golfer. I enjoy golf, but it doesn’t mean that much to me. Golf, to my dad, is a very important part of his life. My dad plays at least once a week, almost every Sunday—he considers his Sunday golf rounds as “going to church.” When he started dating again after his most recent divorce he told me how he made a point to make it clear to his prospects that he plays golf every Sunday, and that every Sunday means every single Sunday, regardless of whether it is Mother’s Day, Christmas, or the apocalypse. My dad is committed to getting in his rounds. To him it is a sort of refuge, and a love.

So when he gave me a set of cut-down clubs and signed me up for youth lessons, I don’t doubt some might have taken it as is version of the typical dad-trying-to-live-through-his-son situation. But that wasn’t it at all, I know.

My dad’s dad was an excellent golfer, and my dad played with him on occasion. I imagine the time those two remarkably dissimilar men spent on the course as rare moments when they had a love in common, when they shared a pursuit. I imagine it as a time of bonding and father-son togetherness that my father appreciated deeply. So it should surprise no one that he shared the game with me at an early age. And the bonus was that he almost certainly did it with more care and love than he got from his dad.

I don’t play nearly as much as my dad does. I’ve lived in Chicago for nearly two years and I’ve played once here (granted, you can’t play half the year here, and I have played a few times while away on vacation). I don’t love golf the way my dad does, yet, at least, but that’s OK. I do enjoy playing, and playing a round with him is one of my favorite things to do, and I know it’s something he treasures dearly.

In the summer of 2005 my dad and I, along with two good friends, did a golf tour of Ireland. We spent a night in Dublin, stayed at some great hotels, drank pints of stout, and hand some great food. But it was about the golf, and the time before and after the golf, and us doing it together. Sure, we bickered a bit here and there, as anyone who has to spend 10 days with me will learn is inevitable, but it was a trip of a lifetime for both of us and it never would’ve happened with out my dad’s love of golf and his decision to share it with me.

Sherman Alexie wrote a great piece in The Stranger about keeping the Seattle SuperSonics in Seattle (which, unfortunately, didn’t happen). Much of the content of Alexie’s pitch to “save the Sonics” is worthy of its own post, but for now I’ll just share this part:

While my father was dying, he and I talked basketball. Three days before he died, my father still had enough will and character left to deride Kobe Bryant for being a rotten smallpox wound on the game of basketball.

"I know," I said. "I can't stand him."

That meant I love you, Dad.

"I still can't believe they traded Shaq instead of Kobe."

That meant I love you, too, Son.

Of course, no matter how much I hate Kobe, I still love to watch him play. He's a ferocious poet on the court. And I most especially love to watch him lose.

I hate Kobe like other people hate the New York Yankees. And, man, it feels good to hate like that because I won't start any wars because of it. I get to hate without fear of violence.

And my father hated Kobe like that, too.

When I look back at my relationship with my father, when I put a narrative to it, I realize that every plot point, every surprise, and every tender and/or painful moment has something to do with basketball.

My father was a great basketball player. I was a very good small-town hoopster but I couldn't beat him one-on-one until I was 16 years old.

And I have never felt better or worse than the day I finally defeated my father.

My father haunts every basketball game.

In every round I play with my dad, Great shot, Bud, and Nice putt! means I love you, Dad. And when he’s gone my father will, without a doubt, haunt every round of golf I ever play. And that’s a great and beautiful thing.