One Good Deed

My son can be stubborn about things. He can be rude, temperamental, irrational. He throws fits, rolls his eyes, gets himself in trouble. He can be a real six-year old at times. 

It can get frustrating, these battles. Not giving into his demands and standing up to a tyrant. I often remind him he’s not the boss.

When it comes to parenting, I do a lot of things wrong. I’m aware of that. This blog is more of a journal than a how-to guide. Then again, I do some things right.  And I’m always trying. It’s never a lack of effort that is lacking on my end.

As I’ve posted, he’s big into football. I mean, he's really into football. Every weekend for the past oh, two months now, he’s up and ready, in full football gear, ready to go to hit the field. This is our thing, and it shows no signs of waning. These days he likes to wear the gear: shoulder pads, helmet, he’s even got a mouthpiece. He likes to tuck in his jersey and hit the football field looking like a pro.  

*On a side note, if you’ve never played one-on-one football on a 100-yard field on a late June afternoon in Virginia, consider yourself lucky. Or, if you’re one of those cross fitters, add it to your regiment.

Leaving the gridiron on Saturday, we were sweaty and flushed. I suggested we get an early start on Sunday, being that it was 92 degrees and all. He agreed, so much so that by 9am on Sunday he was fully dressed in a helmet and shoulder pads, mumbling “Dad, are you ready?” through his mouthpiece.

“It was your idea,” my wife reminded me. And it was. So after slugging down two cups of coffee, we hit the high school field ready for action.

It was nice, though. Bright, quiet, the heat not yet taking hold on the day. We did some warm-ups, ran a few drills, then it was all business. After our game, I found myself sprinting a 40-yard dash. Bent over and heaving, Simon encouraged me. “Dad, you run like a teenager.” That was all it took. I found myself lining up and doing it again. I think motivational speaking is in that kid’s future.

After an hour and a half, he still wasn't ready to leave. I was, and this set off a fit. He had no problems letting me know just how unappreciative he was of his parents who’d just dropped everything on a Sunday morning so that he could play football. He wanted to continue kicking field goals. We had chores to do.

So he lashed out. And he got consequences. Later, when he pulled himself together, we went to the pool (because, you know, 92 degrees).

Redemption came at the pool. We were tossing the football when a group of kids wandered over and wanted in on the action. I took turns throwing it to each kid, but when I went to throw it to the youngest boy, maybe four, the others waived him off, “Oh, he can’t throw.”

I tossed the ball back to Simon, dunked myself underwater. When I came up, I saw something I won’t soon forget. My kid approaching the other kids, moving past the older kids and holding the football out to the little boy, the one who, “Couldn’t throw.”

Imagine my surprise, watching my son help this boy put his fingers on the laces, then going through the motions of throwing the football.

The boy tossed the ball to me. I told him he did great. Then I looked at my son, who was beaming with pride. And all I could think was how maybe I am doing something right.

Super Tecmo Madness

We’ve all heard the dangers of too much screen time for children. TV, tablets, phones and game systems. How often do you see kids (or adults) zoning out with a phone in their hands.

At our house, we’re hyper-vigilant about this sort of thing. But then again, we’re not.

We don’t let our kid play on our phones. If you do that’s cool, we just don’t. In fact, I make a conscious effort not to be on the phone in front of my kid. I don’t even have it on me when we’re together. Why would I? What am I missing? A post, some terrible news? A witty comment on Twitter? Nah, I’m good.

Okay, so what do we allow? Well, glad you asked. The short answer?

Tecmo Bowl.

Yeah, that’s right. It’s actually Super Tecmo Bowl, released in 1991. When I took on my new job s a computer technician, I started tinkering with my old one in the basement. Simon and I would take out RAM, the harddrive, simple stuff he enjoyed doing. I taught him how to change and create passwords, profiles, set screen protectors and backgrounds. We’d pretend I was a new guy at the job and he’d help me get logged in. What can I say, we’re dorks.

Then one day he noticed an emulator on the desktop. “Dad, what’s that?”

“Oh, that’s,” I couldn’t control myself. I fired the thing up and began. “So look, this is how you play Super Tecmo Bowl on the computer. It's actually a rigged up 2013 version of the classic, and I had to teach him how to use the keyboard as a controller. I figured he’d play it for five minutes and that would be the end of it.

Not what happened.

As it happened, my son fell in love with one Ray Lewis. He's walking around in a 52 jersey, baffling kids and confusing adults, probably wondering why a six-year old is going on about a guy who retired five years ago.  

And not just that. The kid loves defense. We hang in the basement, on this old Windows Vista computer. He plays D and I play offense. He started asking football questions. I taught him about the downs, punting, special teams and reading a defense. And I have to say, I never realized just how complex the game of American Football actually is until I tried explaining the difference between a field goal, extra point, safety kick, punt, and a regular kick-off to a six-year old.

Believe it or not, it’s quality time. We go outside and play football, running pass routes and reenacting Super Tecmo Bowl. Imagine my neighbors, watching us act out a video game football contest, my son stating the physical conditions (excellent, good, average, bad) of each player before each play.

Now he’s learned football. Heck, he could coach football. He can read a zone defense and blitz schemes. He can count by sevens. He can read all sorts of variations of names.

He can play offense now. He can work a keyboard, because in the old edition you have to use a keyboard instead of the controllers.

The only probable is that all of his favorite players are retired.

And one last thing that’s come out of this. So, he really likes Ray Lewis. When I liked athletes back in the eighties, I had him write out a note, asking for his autograph. We’ve mailed it off with a self-addressed return envelope. I chuckle, thinking about Ray Lewis, opening my son’s letter, finding out he’s still someone’s favorite player.

Now we wait, and I really hope it works out because it will be cool for him to see the power of the pen.

Son, Don't Pick The Cowboys...

Son,I'll put it bluntly. I forbid you to cheer for the Dallas Cowboys.

I'm doing this for your own good. Go find a good team. A blue collar, workmanlike team. Don't fall for the flash, the titles, the glitz and glamour. It's fool's gold, and you are no fool.

Me? Yeah, it's too late for me. But I have high hopes for you.

You can question my loyalty, call me a fair weather fan.Just don't say that I don't care, because I do. I want to protect my son, save him the head banging frustration that comes with following The Boys. And in the end, isn't that what we all want to do, protect our children?

Dreaming Big...

He’s a clean slate. Without the memories of yesteryear which makes the heartbreak of today so painful. He never saw the big three play in the nineties. He hasn’t learned about the history and tradition. So for him I will say, go find your team. Any team. Just don’t pick the Cowboys.

With 31 other options to choose from(and there may be more on the way), I want him to find happiness somewhere else. He can pick those lovable losers in Cleveland, he can choose solely by uniform—as my wife did, and hop on the wings of the Seattle Seahawks. He can go with the rich history and tradition of the Packers, Bears, Giants, ahem, uh Redskins.

And that is fine. Just don’t pick the Cowboys.

The Cowboys are like the hot blonde smiling at you across the room. The one everyone warns you about yet you trudge across the floor towards her. She’ll flirt with you and get your hopes up and then split after you buy her a drink. But like an idiot you'll keep coming back hoping that the next time....well yes next time will be different.

You’ll blame the defense, Tony Romo, coaching, that hideous big screen in the stadium, climate change. You'll make excuses to make yourself feel better. A week will pass and you tune in again, only to inflict more pain.  And then come playoff time you'll find yourself without a team.

I know all too well. I became a Cowboys dad because my dad was a Cowboys fan. I never had a chance. I learned about the history, checking out books from our school library where I read about the gridiron greats who’d worn the star. Players like Drew Pearson, Bob Hayes, Don Meredith, Ed “Too Tall” Jones, Randy White, Tony Dorsett, Hollywood Henderson, Everson Walls, Michael Downs, Doug Cosby, and even the lesser known but fearless renegade, Bill Bates. At home I’d sit cross legged and wide-eyed on the floor as my dad passed down the stories of the clashes with the Steelers during the glory days of the seventies. Sure, those losses to the Steel Curtain were heart wrenching, but Super Bowl victories in '71 and '77 kind of cushioned the blow.

Those teams in the seventies were perennial power houses, not to mention what could have been had Jackie Smith not dropped a sure touchdown pass in Super Bowl XIII. (Still hurts). But the end was near, and Dwight Clark’s catch against the 49ers ushered in the eighties as Danny White struggled in the shadow of the great Roger Staubach. But struggle is a relative term. Compared with today, the eighties were a runaway success. There were still playoffs, and even playoff victories. There was still Tom Landry, stalking the sidelines, the legend in the suit and fedora who’d coached the team since its inception in 1960.

As a kid I devoured the history of my beloved Cowboys. And now it hurts. It hurts bad. But this isn’t a history lesson son. This is a warning. A heed. A command if you will. Stay away from them. As a matter of fact, stay away from football. Do something productive with your time or even just punch yourself in the gut every Sunday afternoon.

But if you do choose to watch football, at least pick a team without a meddling owner. Pick a team that plays in a normal stadium instead of a theme park with a football field. Pick a team with less flash and more substance, a team whose owner doesn’t play fantasy football with his own club. I guess that does rule out the Redskins too…

One playoff win over the next seventeen years. Kids graduating high school now have never known the Cowboys to be any good and probably wonder why they are so talked about. They’re the epitome of mediocre. Win one lose one and so on. They flirt with playoff contention and do just enough to stay relevant and in the news. 

And they let you down year after year after year.

Yet they do remain relevant.They are the lead story, the headliners.The main act. Forbes Magazine lists them as the most valuable franchise in sports.  The Cowboys games are constantly on prime time. Thanksgiving, Monday nights. And every year is the year. Few teams in the history of sports can excite the media with a two game winning streak. The Cowboys do it every single year. If they win three, things really get chaotic. The talk shows begin gushing about the playoffs and glory days. Hell, they were 3-9 and "still in the hunt" this year. And then the bottom falls out. 

Every. Single. Year.

So don’t do it son. Pick San Fran, Denver, San Diego, hell, pick the Raiders. Just don’t pick the Boys, don’t jumble your brain with useless stats that float around inside your father’s head and make him wince when hears names like Quincy Carter, Leon Lett, Babe Laughenburg, ugh, Greg Hardy. 

Go pick a team and enjoy football like a normal person. Who knows?  Maybe you'll hitch your wagon to the right horse and get lucky. So listen to your father, or your grandfather, we want the best for you. Break away, go find a team that will make you happy.

You have my blessing.

Horseplay

I was playing with my son the other night when suddenly he came down and bashed my head like a professional wrestler.  I jolted upright to make sure he was okay, and he was, it didn’t appear to bother him at all. But then I noticed a red bump on his forehead. Of course I panicked, like only a first time parent can.  I called for my wife, she said he was fine.  But still, what if I hurt him?  I spent the rest of the evening watching him like a hawk, and the little bump receded, unlike my worries.

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He’s been knocking his head around more and more lately.  I heard him hit the crib railing the other night, the doorframe in his jumper last week, and then Dad’s big old cranium last night.  I may need to get him a helmet, just like my father did for me.

I was maybe 8 when my dad bought my first football helmet at the flea market.  It was blue with a plastic facemask and bore the scars of many game day clashes. I can still remember the head lice wearing it everywhere I went, head butting trees in the yard and ramming the walls of the house like a billy goat. Sleeping was difficult, as the pesky facemask made turning over a chore.  But it was so much fun, and it wasn’t even football season.  As a matter of fact I wasn’t even playing football then.  Hmmm, now that I think about it—riding my bike, my skateboard, go-carts, my mini bike—I went nowhere without that helmet. And it came in handy at the dentist office.  Later on, after my head became too big, it became a desk lamp. But for a summer, I stuffed my big old noggin into that helmet and went about my business, flopping around the yard in shorts, a t-shirt, and, wait a minute….

I must have looked like an idiot wearing football helmet around the neighborhood.  I’m picturing myself prancing up and down the street, my mullet peeking out of the back, swaying in the wind as the neighbor’s sipped evening coffee, shaking their heads and saying things like, It’s a shame about that poor boy…

This explains a lot. I was only a soiled bed sheet away from being chained to a tree. Okay, no helmet for my son.  I’ll just have to be extremely careful when we horseplay.  No tossing him through the air from couch to couch until he’s at least 5.  Just like my dad did with me…Oh. Things are really starting to add up here. 

Just so you know my little guy is doing just fine.  It seems he’s inherited his dad’s thick skull.  I’m going to have to get used to some bumps and bruises along the way, just as my dad encountered with me.  At least until he bought that leash for the tree.  It all makes sense now.

Ready For Football...

July is a great time for my wife. School is out, the days are long, and she has my undistracted attention. For me, July is hot and humid. A dragging and sports-less haze of a month. The Nba finals are over. I’m not a baseball guy, and I don't watch NASCAR or pro wrestling. Maybe tennis. I’m definitely not watching golf. Last year I had the Olympics, but now I'm left stuck in sporting limbo. 

But the end is near.  In a few weeks the Hall of Fame game kicks off the NFL preseason, and college football won't be far behind.  I do however, have a feeling that my football viewing will be forever changed.  I mean, with so many new developments, who has the time?

My son screams like a pterodactyl.  It’s ear piercing, rattling the glass in the windows, and could be a form of communication with aliens. I feel for the dogs, who’ve surprisingly been excellent sports about the whole thing.  He shrieks whether he is happy or upset, it makes no difference to him.  He’s quite impressed with himself, watching his face you can see the wheels turning behind those big blue eyes of his.  Wow, I can make that sound? Cool!  Not cool.  I’m waiting for a knock on the door to find a haggard and sweaty, overworked state employee holding a clip board, informing me in a polite yet authoritative tone that he/she needs to come inside so that I can answer a couple of questions.

And then of course there's the diaper changes, which are getting increasingly difficult with all of this wiggling he does.  He used to lie there like a lump and go through the motions.  He goes through plenty of motions these days, squirming and flopping like a fish in a boat.  I cannot count the times I’ve put his diaper on backwards in the middle of the night (Don’t tell Mom!). My football viewing will take a hit due to this, along with feeding times, play time, bath time, (more like splash time), and all the other times of the day.  I’m going to need plenty of time outs. 

Also to consider is the crawling stage.  We are not too far from being mobile, which I’m told is a game changer (like the forward pass!) Yes, soon I will be following this little munchkin around the house as he crawls and scampers like a third dog. And if his crawling is anything like his bouncing, well, I’d better get in shape.

So football season could very well come and go and I may never know the difference.  Maybe I’ll catch the Super Bowl, we’ll see. Not to worry, I have my priorities (and dvr), so I don’t mind missing some football to catch these new developments.  It seems like every day he does something to make me smile or laugh, and I can’t believe how blessed we are to have such a healthy (and extremely active) little guy.

Remote Setting

Watching television with my wife, I often have to compromise due to our different tastes. While I tend to enjoy slapstick comedies such as The Office, she’s more of a police drama, Cold Case type girl. Lately however, she doesn’t make it through a car commercial without falling asleep.

Now with the football season underway, I've had to resort to a covert channel change technique--very carefully--one false move and she’s awake, her eyes will adjust and I'll find myself watching House Hunters as the game heads into overtime on ESPN. 

The first step is the ever important remote control placement.  If I have to rummage through between the cushions or lean up to the coffee table I run the risk of stirring a sleeping pregnant wife, which could lead to a foot massage, not good when a game's on. 

Also taken into consideration is her breathing pattern.  If I can’t see her eyes, I have to guess by her breathing whether or not she’s sleeping.  Long deep rhythmic breaths mean it’s time for the hand waive.  The hand waive is just as it sounds, when I think she’s asleep, I will waive my free hand over her face, no response?  It’s game time.

Lastly and perhaps most important, is the volume.   Many times, after all is clear, I'll flip to the game and....THE CROWD GOES WILD, WHAT A SENSATIONAL PLAY!!!  I’ve forgotten to turn the volume down and she's now awake and wondering what happened to the syndicated episode of Law & Order involving an East German
crime ring.

Now sometimes there are elements out of my control.  I can do everything mentioned, and just as I settle in to watch the game, the dogs will start barking, the phone rings, and I'm back to square one.

But don't feel bad for me, there could be far worse situations to be in than a little remote control strategy. Besides, once the baby is here I may not be as concerned with what's on television anyway.

Roster Changes

Everything looks like a baby...

Like most guys, I’ve always loved playing and watching sports, mainly football. From the college ranks to the professionals, I follow my teams during the off season and through the grind of the regular season, watching the experts on television and listening to the commentary on the radio talk shows with total devotion.

Usually August is an exciting time for me because it means that football season is right around the corner, but it has crept up on me this year.  I haven’t been paying attention to details.  As friends and coworkers begin to talk football news, I find myself lost, like a kid who has failed to study for a quiz.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m pumped that football is just around the corner, I'm just a bit behind on the latest trades and acquisitions.  Perhaps this is due to the upcoming new addition to our own roster.

These days I have more to think about than training camps and pre-season rituals.  Schedules have taken on a whole new meaning, as weeks and trimesters have replaced quarters and halves.

Statistics have changed for me; I’m more concerned with crown to rump ratio rather than touchdowns to interceptions.  Passing yards have taken a backseat to red blood cell production, while training camp reports have been ignored while I anticipate finding out if we’re having a boy or a girl.

As we chart the progress with each week, I’ve found myself going weeks without watching SportsCenter and in the dark about my beloved team’s progress.  It seems there’s a new team in town and it’s quickly become my favorite, The Fanning family.