Fathers & Sons & Sports (18 page)

Participation in sports is, for better or worse, the chief currency of boyhood. Arrive at a new school and make a diving catch for touchdown at your first recess and you’re guaranteed a great table in the cafeteria until graduation. It’s like having a black Amex. It’s not that I was lousy at sports when I was a kid. I’d had my share of athletic success. There were a number of games where I scored winning baskets, runs, or goals. The problem was, this mostly happened at a Jewish summer camp. Only there could a five-foot-tall guard follow his own missed jump shot and put the rebound up and in. As I entered high school, puberty just barely brushed me as it went by on its way to the non-Jews, who filled out completely by the end of ninth grade. I was badly overmatched when it came to competing for real playing time in the high-profile sports, the ones the girls would go to watch. I wanted better for my son.

Marty has physical advantages that I never had. I did my best to make sure he’d be tall. I wouldn’t say that my choice of a spouse was completely based on my desire to produce imposing physical specimens, but the fact that my wife, Liz, is a giantess who had been recruited as a rower when she was applying to college did allow me to overlook the fact that her grandparents felt it foolish to dismiss Hitler as a complete crackpot. It was evident early on that successful breeding had enabled me to break the genetic chain of abuse that had produced generations of tiny liquor salesmen.

With the major physical component in place, it was now up
to me to instill a love of sports and to stoke the boy’s competitive fires. I had been so preoccupied with the physical attributes that I ignored what should have been some very red flags in terms of temperament that, in retrospect, show up clearly on both sides of our family. Liz, despite her impressive height, comes from a long line of bookworms. Below her father’s high school yearbook photo is the caption “The Guy With the Briefcase.” I always figured that, since Liz was graceful and could row and dance, maybe her dad was the genetic anomaly. I should have researched the whole thing more diligently. Liz’s grandparents were botanists. In an age when well-heeled collegians rode and swam and boxed, these geeks were out there taking cuttings of ferns and sketching them. On my side, I knew Marty’s forebears didn’t have much to offer in terms of storied athletic history. Sports, for them, had been limited to long walks across the Russian steppe to avoid conscription in the Czar’s Army and, for more intense cardio, fleeing pogroms. By the time they got to this country they were exhausted and busied themselves with retail and gin rummy. Yet, somehow, I had always assumed that there had been latent elite athletes in that group who never got a real opportunity to emerge.

The problem I encountered while fostering Marty’s competitive instinct is that the instinct runs counter to the values we try to instill in our children in every other aspect of social development. Put simply, we spend all day telling our toddlers, “Let that boy have a turn” and “Remember to share.” Then when it comes
time for sports, we expect the kid to put all that aside and GET THAT BALL! Marty was too nice. We could see it when he started playing soccer. If another kid wanted the ball, who was he to make him unhappy? His attitude was, “Oh, you’re interested in this? Go, have fun. I’ll be watching my shadow and thinking it looks like I’m in a movie.”

Even in sports where battling for a loose ball wasn’t a main concern, Marty was uninspired. The weakest youth baseball players, the outfielders, can be divided into two categories. They are either “spinners”—kids who like the natural high of dizziness that comes from feeling the wind whizzing past their faces as they twirl around in circles—or they are “diggers”—artistic types who use their cleats and occasionally hands or sticks to carve designs into the outfield turf. Marty was versatile. He was both a brilliant spinner and a digger who, with enough time and space, could create perfectly carved circles that if preserved long enough would, thousands of years from now, surely be regarded as evidence of visits from extraterrestrials. Fearing for Marty’s safety—God forbid a line drive should find its way out there and bean him while he was involved in an art project—I’d often holler, “Heads up out there.” As we watched, my brother, who actually coached some high school baseball, remarked, “This must be very hard for you.” It was excruciating.

When the registration packets arrived for baseball, basketball, soccer, or even roller hockey, Marty always said he wanted to sign up again. “Why?” I asked myself. Unlike most young kids,
he was relentlessly agreeable. I’m sure he thought I wanted him to sign up. I didn’t want to suggest that he quit, lest I be viewed as the father who had no confidence in his son. And Liz—I’m going to spread the blame a little here—said it was good for him to go out there and exercise and be with other kids. She insisted that it wasn’t about whether I thought he was good enough. It was about him having fun, and he said he was. I tried to point out that if he thought he was having fun at sports, imagine what a blast he’d have at something he was able to do. At that point, Liz refused to continue listening, or have sex with me.

Part of the problem was that his crappy performance was being rewarded. People in charge of youth sports today are so preoccupied with making sure everyone participates and is happy that they have forgotten about the poor parents of the lousy player. When you sign up for sports, your kid is guaranteed a trophy. When I was young, you got a trophy when your team won the championship. Now, as long as your parents pay the entry fee, it comes automatically at the end of each season. As if those trophies aren’t enough, the coaches, at the obligatory end-of-the-season pizza party, hand out special smaller awards to each kid on the team. Great players are recognized for scoring the most goals or being the best defender. The worst kid, provided he attended practice and didn’t bite the other kids, or at least didn’t break the skin, wins the sportsmanship award. We have lots of sportsmanship trophies. Marty always had fun at the parties. I’d look over at the team, and Marty would be mixing in
quite nicely. The other boys never held his lack of on-field skill against him. He was right in there, talking about goofy characters he’d made up and getting big laughs (with good material, too, not just from cheap fart jokes and messing around with the food). In fact, if they gave a trophy for Best Performance at the Party, he would have won in a cakewalk. So it went, season after season. Marty carted home his prizes at the end without ever cracking the code and realizing he was terrible. Why couldn’t a coach just tell him to hang it up? I certainly couldn’t. I had to live with him and preserve our healthy relationship.

As boys reach junior high, the more aware among the less skilled players begin to weed themselves out. This occurs at the same time boys develop a sense that other people are watching them. At this age they may also begin changing clothes, or showering, or even combing their hair. Rather than be viewed as lousy athletes, these newly aware types migrate to other activities: drama, music, video-gaming and pre-pot-smoking aimlessness. In this regard, Marty was a late bloomer. In addition to lacking large motor coordination, Marty also lacked the awareness that other people could see him and possibly pass judgment. I have to believe that this deficit comes from his maternal grandfather, “The Guy With the Briefcase.” If Grandpa had been aware that others were watching, surely he would have ditched the attaché.

We were up against a ticking clock. The games were getting more serious. I could see that other players looking for someone to pass to would notice that Marty was open, and then look for
someone else. Since Marty wasn’t paying as close attention as I was, he didn’t seem to notice. His attitude seemed to be “I’m here if you need me, but you might want to pass that to someone who really cares.” With every on-field miscue I felt the other parents’ sideways glances toward Liz and me, the kind that seem to say, “I wonder what those people did to create such a lousy player.” To cope, I began making jokes to let the other parents know that I wasn’t some clueless fool who didn’t understand how vitally important the under-12 soccer games are. Using my keen wit, I let them know I was sympathetic to the plight of the team saddled with the kid who skipped along just behind the action. I quipped, “Wow, look how far away from the ball Marty is. He’s missing a real good game out there.” Or: “Steven’s going to be tired, he’s got to cover his guy and Marty’s.” My sideline bits got mixed reviews. Some of the dads would sort of smile, while many of the moms would both chastise and comfort me by saying, “He’s a terrific kid!” (I knew that. He had 20 sportsmanship trophies!) I worried. At some point in the very near future some cruel kid was bound to say, “Hey, you suck.” I was then going to have to kill that boy and go to prison for a long time. I couldn’t bear the thought. I resolved to tell Marty it was all over.

One day, when Marty was 12, I was driving him to soccer and as we neared the field he asked, “Dad, why should I be hungry?” I said, “What?” He said, “Coach says we should be hungry out there. Why would that help?” I couldn’t take it anymore. If Marty couldn’t grasp even the most basic sports cliché by now,
then, damn it, he was done! I blurted, “Sweetie, there are two more games left, and then we’re done with soccer.” I quickly caught myself and said, “I mean, if you want to quit after this year, you could. But if you’re enjoying it, of course you can keep going.”

He looked at me. For a moment I feared there’d be some torrent of emotion, that he’d break down and cry, “Finally! I’ve only been doing this for you! Oh, Dad, thank you, thank you! Let’s go buy me a Stratocaster and some weed!” There was none of that. He just said that sounded good to him and wondered if I’d ever seen
Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life
. He then went on to describe all the parts he found particularly amusing.

He didn’t quit sports completely. Marty likes to be physically active; he does love to ski and climb. I wondered if maybe it was just the team experience that wasn’t engaging him. When his buddy signed up for tennis, Liz asked Marty if maybe he would want to give that a try. Marty, loving the idea of hanging with his pal, enthusiastically agreed.

I drove Marty and Daniel to the first lesson. The two were so completely engrossed in discussions of funny movies and Bill Cosby routines that I had to direct each movement: “Guys, get your rackets. Hey, close the car door. Watch it, that car is pulling out.” They finally realized where they were when I introduced them to Eric, the instructor. As they made their way to the court, Marty and Daniel continued chattering away and singing Tom Lehrer songs they’d memorized. From his side of the net, Eric showed them the basic forehand and then
proceeded to hit very soft shots for them to return. I watched as Marty swung at and completely missed the first three. Eric was very encouraging. Daniel did a Fat Albert voice and Marty laughed. Marty missed the fourth and then hit the fifth off the racket frame, sending it sideways onto the adjacent court. I called Liz on my cell. She said, “Hello?” I said simply, “It isn’t tennis” and hung up.

So it’s not tennis. It’s not soccer or baseball or basketball or any ball. And as little interest as he has in playing the games, he has even less when it comes to watching. He actually left a Super Bowl party at halftime because he was tired of watching the game and felt that he’d already seen all the funny commercials.

Marty never got it. He would never be even the mediocre athlete I was. If he’d stayed with sports, he’d still be the last player chosen at a Hasidic softball game. What I’ve got is a comedy geek. That’s what he’s really into: comedy. Any comedy. Even bad improv. Nowadays he’s consumed with making funny videos and posting them on the web. Great. So he’s funny. What do you do with that? I just don’t see where that’s going to get him. I guess you just have to give up at some point and let children find their own way. As long as he’s not hurting anyone. As long as he’s not the one doing the bad improv.

With my two younger boys I’ve mellowed a bit. I just don’t get as emotionally invested in their athletic endeavors. Naturally, my middle son has turned out to be a really competitive athlete
who is a bear to live with. He dissects every baseball game he plays, pitch by pitch. It makes me miss riding home and hearing about what Homer had said to Grandpa Simpson. Nonetheless, it is hard to look at Marty, who is now almost 6′2″, and think that he’ll never excel in competitive sports. He’s got a perfect rower’s body. His mom rowed. I’m sure he could row. If I could just convince him that rowing is funny.