We have balls, lots of balls. I'm not particularly good at denying the boy any of his wishes, but this fault is most acute when it comes to any remotely spherical object. We have golf balls, baseballs, super bouncy balls, little balls with bells in them that are supposed to be cat toys, stuffed balls, wiffle balls, balls with suction cups that stick to glass surfaces, footballs and basketballs of every dimension, soccer balls, balls with tails and wings that guarantee a perfect spiral every time (so long as you're right handed, which the boy is not), and a rainbow of those cheap plastic balls always found piled to the ceiling in grocery store bins (the ones strategically located in the candy or junk food aisle). We even have balls that light up when they strike a hard surface, like my head. And striking my head with balls is why the golf balls and the baseballs are now stored out of the boy's reach. I actually blacked out once after taking a shot from a Titleist projectile fired from close range.
I'm not going to make it a big secret or sugar coat it: I'm one of those parents who fully intends on living vicariously through my kid. While other more well-adjusted, good-intentioned parents were playing classical music and reading stories to their unborn children, I was whispering to Silas about how some day he would be 6-foot-4, left handed, and throw absolute gas. You will bring the cheddar, boy, and you will bring it with a lot of late movement. I even have a personalized license plate that reads "LHP" (left handed pitcher). I kid you not. So it's no wonder why every time the boy's eye is drawn to something that bounces, dad says "put it in the cart."
Early intervention is key for fathers hoping to live vicariously through their sons.
With Earl Woods-like determination, I was placing a ball in the boy's hands incessantly from birth. He would pick up some other, less desirable toy, and I would stealthily replace it with a ball, taking care, of course, to position said ball in his left paw (contrary to popular belief, he comes by his left-handedness naturally, though I did contemplate tying his other less potentially college scholarship worthy arm behind his back). Eventually he started throwing the balls, likely in frustration since he wanted some other toy, but that was of no consequence thanks to the miracle of positive reinforcement. Every time a ball spun off his fingertips, dad, wild with enthusiasm, scampered after it, returned it to his left hand, and excitedly beckoned him to throw it again. And he did, again and again.
Look at those mechanics. I smell early retirement.
I was hopeful we were nearing our first breakthrough, a literal one featuring a ball actually breaking through a window, but somewhere around age two my plans for the little prodigy got derailed. Dad's campaign of positive reinforcement was no match for the vast marketing conspiracy that propelled Thomas the Tank Engine into our playroom (and living room, and bedrooms, and hallways, and staircases). Our veritable corncucopia of athletic equipment now pales in comparison to our stockpile of steamies. But every now and then, as we push past the cheesy poofs, I'll catch a glimmer in the old boy's eyes.
"Daddy, can we get a ball?"
I have to fight back the gratifying urge to quickly proffer an enthusiastic YES! But it's bargaining time, and I mustn't give away my hand.
"But you don't ever play with all the balls you have now," I reason, suppressing a smile.
"But I will play with this one," he insists.
The deal is almost closed. My temporary escape from the monotony of playing with trains is imminent.
"OK, but you've got to make me a deal."
"A deal?"
"When we get home, you've got to pick up all your trains to clear some space to play tackle me game with your new ball."
"OK, Daddy. I love tackle me game!"
...
As I put the groceries away, I hear the satisfying clink of wood and metal meeting as the boy chunks the whole Isle of Sodor into the train trundle. The pleather mini-football rests at the bottom of the plastic grocery bag, tinting it brown where the surfaces of bag and ball meet. It's on the kitchen counter, secured with a watchful eye. Silas will get it, but only after I've inspected his handiwork in the playroom. He appears, grinning, and announces that all of his toys are picked up. For once they really are, so I slowly remove the ball from the bag, a rabbit out of the hat that has the boy's full attention. Holding the ball out an arm's length, I tantalize him while, on springs, he bounces up and down, reaching in vain for our new toy. His words bounce too, keeping rhythm with his pogo feet: "Da-Da-Dee-Dee-I-I-Want-Want-My-New-Ball-Ball!"
"You'll never get this ball," I declare, tucking it under my arm for a rumble around the playroom, "because you can't tackle me!" Within two seconds, the boy has wrapped himself around a leg that lumbered in one place for too long, and I'm dragging him across the bright colors of the United States of America carpet map, hoping to unveil my touchdown dance in the Atlantic Ocean. Score! But what's this, before dad can make it across he stumbles, falls dramatically, and the ball is unloosed.
"Oh my gosh, you can tackle me!" I tell him, as if there was ever any doubt. He always "wins" tackle me game. He turns the ankle from the toppled tree loose, scrambles to his feet and jumps on top of me in an act of unnecessary roughness. The boy, unaware that dad's fall was, at best, the work of a C-list actor, is so pleased with himself that he seems to have forgotten something. After a few more unnecessary roughness penalties, I got enough air back into my lungs to pose an important question: "Where's the ball?" The wee man's eyes went wide as saucers, and he launched himself on a recon mission to find his fumbled comrade. I reached for anything I could, a bit of t-shirt, an ankle, but soon Silas scoops up the ball and turns to face me. Beckoning me, he repeats our familiar refrain: "You can't tackle me!" and it's on like a pot of neckbone. I drag him down a few times, let him run me over half a dozen times, collecting a bit of carpet burn as I am plowed through Nebraska, but no matter what I never get to go on offense again.
"Can I have the ball again?" I ask.
"No, it's my ball."
"Pleeeeeese, you never let me have have the ball."
"OK, Daddy, but you have to..." he pauses, cocks his arm, and fires a tight spiral across the playroom "...go get it!" His back is turned to me as the rest of the sentence trails off his lips; he's already giving chase before my cranky limbs so much as move. Wild laughter fills the room as he swarms on top of the ball with a dive. The ball squirts free and he pounces after it, trying to follow the unpredictable pattern of an oblong ball's bouncing. He always seems to secure it just as dad finally arrives.
"You're too slow, Daddy," he says, bucking me off of him before launching the ball once more. As my futile attempts for another turn continue, sweat affixes curls to the delighted boy's face and forehead. He throws; we chase; I finish second in a two-man race. Finally, he makes a tactical error, telegraphing the path of his next rifle-armed release. Superman-style, I lay out, sacrificing my body for one fleeting moment of glory that will only be witnessed by a little lefty QB and the carpet fiber people of Pennsylvania. I swatted the little wad of pleather skyward and wiggled under its wobbly descent just in time, scooping my hands under it for a clean interception.
The turnover, plus a bit of taunting, puts the boy on tilt. "You can't tackle me; you can't tackle me; you can't tackle me!" I teased, dancing around the room on tip toes like a wannabe Billy "White Shoes" Johnson, high stepping and stiff arming Silas's sweaty head. I think the time has finally come to toughen him up a little bit, to not let him win. His cheeks flash caution red as frustration mounts. Finally, having had all of his ankle grabs thwarted, the boy throws himself on top of California, fetal positions himself, and bawls: "Fine, I don't want to play tackle me game!"
Billy "White Shoes" Johnson
My heartstrings are forged from tug-resistant solid steel: "Crying ain't gonna get it, boy."
He responds with some sort of unintelligible grunt, a mix between an elephant trumpeting and air escaping a balloon, and pulls himself up to his knees.
"If you want it, come get it," I goad, waving the ball back and forth like the red cape of a matador.
The bull boy launches, and misses on his first charge. High-pitched panting accompanies him as he regroups.
"That's good, boy. Use the rage!" I stoke the fires as he sweeps unsuccessfully past again. I'm breaking ankles like
Barry Sanders (no relation).
But the boy is a quick study. This time, as I'm smiling, laughing and posing for the Heisman, he doesn't take any time to regroup. He's sprawled out on the Midwest and wrapped around my ankles before I know what's happening. My knees knock together, buckle, and down I go. Now I'm the one in the fetal position, clutching the ball for all I'm worth. He quickly tires of trying to pry it loose, resorting instead to his favorite form of father abuse: submission wrestling. I feel his thin arm slide under my chin. He layers one arm over the other and hugs tighter and tighter... I'm getting choked out. I'm furiously tapping out, but he's too crazed to obey the universal sign that this fight is over. Elmo is smiling at me from a boxed puzzle on the bookshelf. Elmo is fading. Elmo is waving goodbye. I let the ball slip out; it's my only hope. Crazed kid doesn't notice. From under my crushed Adam's apple the word "ball" gasps its way into the air. "Silas...the ball." I feel him slowly releasing my larynx and, finally, air rushes in, nourishing my lungs. I catch a glimpse of one little bare foot and feel two little hands on my back, propelling the wee man on his hunt for the ball. But it's nowhere to be found. He looks back at me, examining my eyes for the truth.
"I don't have it, I promise," and I don't, but I see the point of the ball peeking out from under the sofa. As soon as he turns to canvas the floor for the football, I slip it out from under the sofa and run, again shouting, "You can't tackle me!" Judging from the boy's expression--he truly looks possessed--perhaps I've pushed this tough love a bit too far. I've got the whole of the United States of America carpet map between us; I hope that will give me enough time to plot my next move. The boy takes in my eyes through tear-stained vision, crinkles his nose, clenches his teeth, and begins to run. His feet move. His arms pump. But he's not coming forward. He's a cartoon character stuck in place. I can see his torso, his enraged, demon-possessed countenance, but the arms and legs spin like a fan on hi. He is a smoke-trailing blur, and I am frozen in awe. Then, like Adam Sandler in Waterboy, he takes flight for the hit, covering North America like he'd been shot from a cannon. The force of the tackle and subsequent fall separated me from the football and sucked out all the wind I had managed to gather since escaping from the rear naked choke. The boy, ignoring the bounding ball, loomed over me like
Muhammad Ali over Sonny Liston. Tackle me game is over. And there ain't gonna be no comeback.
After a moment, I look up at him, and I'm encouraged by what seems to be a trace of recognition in his eyes. Trying to further coax the demons to relinquish him, through gasps for air I ask: "Would you like to play with trains?"
