A Job Well Done

Every so often, those of us in the stay-at-home father community need to take a moment to congratulate ourselves. Frequently a thankless job, stay-at-home fathering is more likely to produce gray hairs than applause. When an investment banker earns millions, she might go to a bar to celebrate; when a lawyer wins a big case, he might treat himself to a nice meal; when a doctor makes a life-saving decision, her colleagues and patients show her respect and appreciation. But the stay-at-home father? He does not earn millions, he is rarely treated to dinner for his expert handling of anything, and his colleagues (children) are not usually forthcoming with respect and praise. Who, then, will acknowledge the stay-at-home father for a job well done. In this case, the stay-at-home father will.

About a month ago, my older boy and I decided that, in order to keep his soccer skills sharp, I would act as his coach/trainer and work with him on drills. We practice dribbling, receiving passes, moving without the ball, shooting and goal-tending. And my boy is good. Very good. Evidence of a job well done? For sure, but I experienced an even more pronounced moment of accomplishment and achievement. Two days ago, my son and I were wrapping up our "training session" with some shots on goals. My son was in goal. I am now in the habit of kicking the ball at my nine-year old as hard as I can. And he saves my shots nine times out of ten. When he returns the favor (kicking at me with power) I am terrified. I almost always cringe, so intimidated am I by his kicks. He scores on me nine times out of ten. I am truly impressed by him. "How do you not get scared?" I asked him, "every time you kick the ball at me, I have to resist the urge to duck. You're never scared and you always block my shots. I don't get it." My son looked at me, genuine amusement on his face. "Dad," he said as if explaining something to someone very dense, "it's called having a dad scream 'Don't be afraid of the ball,' a thousand times a day." He said this slowly and clearly as if he were talking to someone for whom english was not a first language. But he spoke without any bitterness. The feeling conveyed by his words was pride. And the pride was contagious. I blinked back tears, as I thought, "this is how Iker Cassillas' dad must have felt when Iker was nine." I am sure that a young Casey Keller practiced daily with his father who drove 'don't be afraid of the ball' into his head. I looked at his proud, satisfied face, at his glowing smile; I helped put that satisfied expression on his face. By helping him achieve for himself. Damn good stay-at-home fathering. (Even if I do say so myself).

My younger son's baseball game this morning was more proof of a job well-done. He went three for three with three RBIs and a double. The team we played were not push-overs. The Lightning Bolts are comprised of mostly second graders (and we're talking big, heavy-hitting, skilled seven year-olds). They were pleasant and polite, but they carried with them a distinctly menacing air. Our team was bracing for trouble. Our coach even said at practice last night, "tomorrow's team is a good one. They're heavy hitters. So let's give it our best effort." For those of you not fluent in coachese, he was telling us we were going to lose. We were the home team today, and so were in the field first. Our opponents opened with a pair of singles. A laser shot was hit down the first-base line next. Our first baseman scooped the ball up and tagged the base. One out. Men (boys) on second and third. The next hitter hit a scorching line-drive up the middle. Our pitcher leapt into the air, snagged the ball, and tagged out the runner who'd been on second for a double-play. In our half of the inning, we scored four runs. This included a solidly hit, run-scoring single by my boy. In the top of the third inning, my boy cleanly fielded a ball hit to him. He confidently threw the ball into first base. In the bottom of the third, we added two more runs. My son had another single that drove in another run. We were ahead 6-2. We ran into trouble in the top of the fourth inning. The Lightning Bolts are a big-hitting team. They proved it, scoring five runs to take a 7-6 lead going into our last at-bat. I began to compose the speech that I was going to give my son, that we were under-dogs and nearly beat the heavily favored Lightning Bolts. No need for the consolation speech, however. We loaded the bases on three straight singles to start the bottom of the 4th. Our next hitter hit a single that scored the tying run. Then my boy strode to the plate. He got into his batting stance. He took a mighty swing at the first pitch. Strike one. I shouted (lovingly), "spread your legs, get lower, hold your bat at the ready...." The next pitch came in. Strike 2. Two strikes, bases-loaded, game on the line: has a kindergartener ever faced such pressure??!!!?? The next pitch came in, and my son drilled it. He nailed a screaming grounder down the third-base line into left field. His double scored the winning runs. From my position as first-base coach, I did a 180 degree spinning jump, punctuated by a fist-pump. My boy stood on second base, beaming. A hero at such a young age. Great baseball players raced through my mind. Who should I compare my younger boy to.... Williams? Yastremski? Rice? Lynn? Ramirez? Ortiz? I quickly found reasons why my boy is better than all those great ball-players. Then my breath caught. I knew who he reminded me of. One of the greatest ever. His older brother.

Let us look closer at the protagonists in this tale. Two boys, two brothers, two sports heroes, and the stay-at-home father who made the athletic heroics possible. To that dad, let us raise our glasses. Well done, stay-at-home father. Tributes indeed for a job well done.