March 2008
Slice of Life: Invincibility
“She’s not gonna make it,” my 8-year-old
son announces recently about an American Idol hopeful massacring
a ballad. “Her singing is too dramatic.”
“Way over the top,” I agree.
My son’s round blue eyes fix on the screen. He’s immune to
the ingénue’s ferocious good looks and how far that might
take her, and for this I’m thankful. He has the rest of his natural
life to be distracted by pretty women.
My son and I sit closely, actually leaning on each other. One of my tired
hands is deep in a bowl of popcorn, and the other is on the remote control;
one of his tiny hands is also in the popcorn, and the other is resting
lightly on my knee. Pathetic as it may be to some, this is our first extended
experience in spectator sporting.
While many 8-year-olds are already die-hard baseball fans or soccerheads,
mine has never shown an interest in organized sports. When he sat down
with me to watch two minutes of the Super Bowl last February, it was difficult
to explain how a game with so many dull pauses made for exciting television.
“Nachos help,” I told him.
Undaunted, I took him to karate class twice, and while he loved the loose
uniform I ordered from eBay, he never clicked with the beefy sensei who
insisted crying kids “shake it off.”
Instead of physically radiating on a ball field or playground, my son
dives into graphic novels, immerses himself in intricate computer games
and makes grand thoughtful comments that make me wonder if he’s
been possessed by a 60-year-old philosophy professor. His friends love
him for all of the above, but inside I worry about his vulnerability in
a very competitive world.
My own Dad was a top squash player in his college days. I know this because
I used his tarnished trophy bowl to corral my spare change and pocket
detritus when I lived in my parents’ home. But the lifelong schoolteacher,
known during coaching stints as “Howie Basketball,” kept most
of his athletic coordination genes to himself. My brother and I were the
last kids on the block to ride bikes, last in camp to float comfortably
in water and last to cross the finish line in the few local races my Dad
optimistically signed us up for. While reasonably fit, I still can’t
dribble a ball without looking down or swing determinedly at a softball
in a way that won’t embarrass me or tear a ligament.
Instead, my brother and I fell into competitive speech
and debate in the sixth grade, and stuck with it through high school.
Dad adjusted. On tournament days, he’d wake us up in the dark morning
so we could attach our clip-on ties and catch waiting yellow buses in
the school parking lot. As our buses returned late that night, I’d
see our small red car sitting in the lot, its interior dome light illuminated
so my Dad could grade papers while he waited. I’d tumble into the
vinyl back seat, pulling at my collar as I recounted the day’s triumphs
and defeats. If my Dad ever regretted that he’d never sit in metal
bleachers watching me make game-winning foul shots, I never knew it.
I once cleaned the dead leaves and muddy water from an old toy basketball
post, pumped up a kid-sized basketball with Lebron James’ signature
on it, and asked my son to come outside. I practiced feeding the ball
to him, and he valiantly attempted slam dunks into the low hoop. It wasn’t
practice; it was just fun.
He missed most of his dunks, but when they occasionally bounced ... bounced
... bounced in, we both yelped and jumped with raw elation, hugging each
other like NCAA victors. It wasn’t pretty, but it was good.
When Idol ends for the night, Evan pops his favorite Lego Star
Wars game into the computer and explains to his old man the intricate
ways of the Jedi, as if conveying a deep secret. As he slices up droids,
saves comrades and collects hundreds of little gold coins, I realize that
he’s as engrossed and ambitious as any devoted fan could be about
anything. Even better, he’s rooting for himself.
“What are you saving your coins for?” I once asked, impressed.
“Invincibility, naturally,” he said.
“Naturally,” I replied, wishing him as much invincibility
as he can afford, as if he ever needed it at all.
Joel Schwartzberg is a freelance writer
and screenwriter and father of an 8-year-old son and twin 3-year-old daughters.
He still enjoys slam-dunking on toy basketball hoops. He can be reached
through his portfolio at www.jesttokill.com.
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