Mama, here comes midnight with the dead moon in its jaws… - The Magnolia Electric Co. Charlie is 7, sitting on a bucket the wrong way. Instead of plopping his ass down on it like he ought to be doing, he straddles it like a Harley. Like that Urban Cowboy mechanical bull. The evening is spring to the bone: cool, warm, cloudy, with blasts of late sunlight coming down in Hollywood bolts.
I really have a lot to say about this, but then nothing you haven't already said. My brother is named Joseph Paul DeFazio. After Joe D. BIG YANKEES dad. I was supposed to be a boy, I was supposed to be Micky. I was almost Michelina after my grandmother, but I ended up without even the a to make me a princess. (Diana). OK. my dad just passed under tragic covid circumstances and I'm really raw. The tee-ball thing... my son played, played regular ball, too. He was not into it. My daughter Jessie was really into sports... always wanted to be a boy. Co Ed T-BALL and anything else we let her do. In the outfield, someone snacks one... cluncks her right in the head... loud gasps from parents... she tumbles to the ground...I scream... coach runs... she starts crying... "don't take me out"!!!!!! She shakes it off. The parents of the boys are so impressed... one mom said if it was her son he would have screamed for an ambulance. She still is like that at 26.❤
I am so glad I had daughters. I’ve thought about this… a lot… before I had kids, hell before I was married. Would I make my sons play sports knowing that I was the worst little leaguer in the history of little league? I don’t know.
When I was 12, the last year I could’ve played, I finally got on a team. I sucked. My buddies and I were on the bench all of the time. I taught Ron Burns how to juggle, I couldn’t hit but I somehow knew how to juggle. I was the littlest kid, always have been, and if I really gave it my all I could heave the ball about 30 feet. So there was one position for me, 2nd base, I could totally play 2nd base as long as you promised not to hit it to me – ever. Problem was the coach’s 8 year old son played second base. Total nepotism. As if I even knew what nepotism was. Except the 8 year old in question was Doug motherf***in’ Flutie. (this story is only for dudes who are at least as old as Serge). So I rode the bench knowing full well that I had been jobbed and completely thankful for it.
A zillion years later, about the time you were hanging out with Mr. Coffee, I was living in a foreign country and frequenting, as one does, the bookstore where they sold week old American magazines, and one day there on the cover of Sports Illustrated was my 8 year old nemesis all grown up and smiling posed with his family around the giant Heisman Trophy. Turns out perhaps he might have been the better choice after all.
Anyway I was spared that slice of Americana parenting, the girls had a zillion other interests and that was fine by me. I went to every game and every recital and every meet and every art show and every high school musical…. I could not have been prouder. My folks came every now and then and hopefully my kid’s talents made up for the times when little Jimmy took the field and booted a grounder or struck out on 3 pitches.
"I want to shine at this and I am determined to. I want to help Charlie in his time of mild need here, be the guy/the dude/the Dad, but it’s not always that easy for me. I get tricked sometimes by my own imagination. I see myself doing it one way, being this one person, and then something shifts and the axis gets bumped and the mental landscape slides and all that.
I feel anxious because I want to create beauty so bad but I hardly ever do."
—I've been there so many times with my daughter. Those little moments that take flight or fail with almost no control either way. But in the end, you are doing it though, being present, creating beauty together, without question.
Another great Friday morning read. Thank you. And, man, I have been that t-ball dad. It sure is a shitshow. Coaches spend ten minutes putting every kid in position only to have them all rush the ball—outfielders included—the second it topples off that T. And you SO want your kid to do well—they don’t have to be the best; but please God, not the worst. Not for yourself. For them. Because you know the feeling of childhood failure—of being that kid who struck out out swatting at a pitch over your head, even though you got a hit the at-bat before—and you want your child to be the only child in the history of children not to feel that pain. Not today.
I really have a lot to say about this, but then nothing you haven't already said. My brother is named Joseph Paul DeFazio. After Joe D. BIG YANKEES dad. I was supposed to be a boy, I was supposed to be Micky. I was almost Michelina after my grandmother, but I ended up without even the a to make me a princess. (Diana). OK. my dad just passed under tragic covid circumstances and I'm really raw. The tee-ball thing... my son played, played regular ball, too. He was not into it. My daughter Jessie was really into sports... always wanted to be a boy. Co Ed T-BALL and anything else we let her do. In the outfield, someone snacks one... cluncks her right in the head... loud gasps from parents... she tumbles to the ground...I scream... coach runs... she starts crying... "don't take me out"!!!!!! She shakes it off. The parents of the boys are so impressed... one mom said if it was her son he would have screamed for an ambulance. She still is like that at 26.❤
This is so good. Thanks for the true smile, Diane.
should be smacks one. she got a shot right to the head.
I am so glad I had daughters. I’ve thought about this… a lot… before I had kids, hell before I was married. Would I make my sons play sports knowing that I was the worst little leaguer in the history of little league? I don’t know.
When I was 12, the last year I could’ve played, I finally got on a team. I sucked. My buddies and I were on the bench all of the time. I taught Ron Burns how to juggle, I couldn’t hit but I somehow knew how to juggle. I was the littlest kid, always have been, and if I really gave it my all I could heave the ball about 30 feet. So there was one position for me, 2nd base, I could totally play 2nd base as long as you promised not to hit it to me – ever. Problem was the coach’s 8 year old son played second base. Total nepotism. As if I even knew what nepotism was. Except the 8 year old in question was Doug motherf***in’ Flutie. (this story is only for dudes who are at least as old as Serge). So I rode the bench knowing full well that I had been jobbed and completely thankful for it.
A zillion years later, about the time you were hanging out with Mr. Coffee, I was living in a foreign country and frequenting, as one does, the bookstore where they sold week old American magazines, and one day there on the cover of Sports Illustrated was my 8 year old nemesis all grown up and smiling posed with his family around the giant Heisman Trophy. Turns out perhaps he might have been the better choice after all.
Anyway I was spared that slice of Americana parenting, the girls had a zillion other interests and that was fine by me. I went to every game and every recital and every meet and every art show and every high school musical…. I could not have been prouder. My folks came every now and then and hopefully my kid’s talents made up for the times when little Jimmy took the field and booted a grounder or struck out on 3 pitches.
❤ we are really all you, only a very few are Doug.
Solid f****** gold, Jim. I love reading your comments. Hope you are well, man.
Echoes of Doris Kearns Goodwin here somehow. Glad you’re writing these moments
Thank you, Lauren.
"I want to shine at this and I am determined to. I want to help Charlie in his time of mild need here, be the guy/the dude/the Dad, but it’s not always that easy for me. I get tricked sometimes by my own imagination. I see myself doing it one way, being this one person, and then something shifts and the axis gets bumped and the mental landscape slides and all that.
I feel anxious because I want to create beauty so bad but I hardly ever do."
—I've been there so many times with my daughter. Those little moments that take flight or fail with almost no control either way. But in the end, you are doing it though, being present, creating beauty together, without question.
Exactly, Franz. I know you know. I have this feeling you are a wonderful dad. I just know I'm right about that.
Another great Friday morning read. Thank you. And, man, I have been that t-ball dad. It sure is a shitshow. Coaches spend ten minutes putting every kid in position only to have them all rush the ball—outfielders included—the second it topples off that T. And you SO want your kid to do well—they don’t have to be the best; but please God, not the worst. Not for yourself. For them. Because you know the feeling of childhood failure—of being that kid who struck out out swatting at a pitch over your head, even though you got a hit the at-bat before—and you want your child to be the only child in the history of children not to feel that pain. Not today.
Been there. 🙂
Thanks, Tom. I really appreciate your thoughtful insight. Always.
Thank YOU. 🙂