On the eve of this young man’s 17th birthday, he and I go to the gym to train. We’d very recently turned a nice corner, which means he called me up to train instead of the other way around. That’s right, this kid had some real dick moments this past year, and it was hard on the old man if I’m being honest. Anyway, he calls me up and says, “Dad, when are we training?”
“Holy shit,” I say, “is that you?”
“Oh shush.”
I think for a sec how we might be just be back to the old us. God, I pray so. We share a quick laugh over the phone and go to the gym on this, the eve of his birthday. We wait for it to clear. When it does, we work on his mid-range shot a minute or two before the gym fills again and then we get recruited to play some pickup. I’m a mess out there. Not obese, but still, 10-15lbs overweight. Can’t dribble worth a shit anymore. No footwork. If I played hard defense on one play, I’d sandbag it and took the next three possessions off. Simba over here?
Yes, Simba, since now I’m called on, quite barbarously I think–if colon shit kits and a receding hairline and can’t dribble worth a shit are considered “barbarous” reminders–to reflect on my place along the circle of life. To be clear, I turned over the keys well before now on the court and other physical places. We sure as hell can’t play fight in the kitchen anymore, that’s for sure. Not since the last time he practically put a hole in my side that couldn’t possibly have been positive for my spleen or liver or kidney or whatever it is he hit with his right fist.
Look at him, just look at him. The euro. The stroke I swear to God looks like Curry’s or Ray Allen’s silky smoothness. Just look at my Simba up and down that fucking court. Varsity as a sophomore.
“Dad,” he tells me, “I might have a girlfriend pretty soon.”
“Yeah?” I say. “Well, pray for it to happen, then. Ask for lots of stuff before bed tonight. It’s your birthday, it’s how it works.”
He shuts the door, and it’s the usual gut hole dropping him off and watching his back disappear behind a front door or, in this case, a fence and a drop off to a house on the side of a hill. We won’t celebrate his actual birthday together like we used to. It’ll have to wait because of a bat-shit crazy ex who I hardly recognize anymore who insists on putting him in the middle. Still, I’m content. At least I tell myself that. He’s talking to me again the way I remember. We’ll have the following weekend together. So there I sit in my driver’s seat, like an out-of-shape Mufasa sitting all fours on my boulder, calm as I can be under the circumstances, squeezing my eyes shut, slowly, opening them back up, mighty thankful for the role I’ve gotten to play so far in this circle, bullshit and all.
New girlfriend, hunh? Oh shit.
Things Men Carry 