Keeping My Day Job

My 'How To' book on building the perfect athlete has run into some snags. Publishers expect three completed chapters before handing out advance funding. I have notes on scratch paper that work out to roughly three sentences. Add that I have learned my thesis doesn't jive with my chicken scratch, scribbled notes and I'm sunk.

Problems began to surface when faced with having to repeat a level of swim lessons. Casual observation found that even the phenom kids have to double up on a few classes because they aren't big enough for classes designed for older kids that are simply more physically mature.

No problem, I thought, If G has to skip every other class or two, he'll still be on track to score a scholarship in time for me to retire early.

As you may recall, there was trouble from the get-go. In the following days, his drive, resiliency and desire to do anything but go to bed, led to extra training in the bathtub and success in conquering his fears. This single mindedness to push through, to keep training despite sacrificing story time books or (highly edited) bedside tales of dad's youth paid off. Just as the great Rocky Balboa conquered winter in Siberia in the 1985 Boxumentary Rocky IV, G was not deterred by pruned toes and fingers while mastering full-head-submersion bubble blowing. Nothing makes a parent more proud than a naked kid with a pair of swim goggles being occupied for an hour. When I shared my pride of his accomplishment his only question was, Do I get a trophy?

The clear desire for a trophy is good. Eventually he'll realize that trophies are worthless and the heads break off when they're stored in shoe boxes at your parents house while you chase your dream and couch surf around the country. By then he'll learn that athletic success is about money. He'll practice free throws and three pointers with the goal of buying his parents a gigantic house high on a hill above the rows of McMansions that all the poor people like doctors and lawyers live in.

So we signed up for a school sponsored basketball camp. Whatever it takes to get through winter right? A dozen kindergarteners, bouncing balls in a wood floored echo chamber while you sit with a bunch of moms staring at iphones is about the best way a parent can show their child unconditional love.

Basketball has a lot of nuances, rules and details that 5-year olds might not get. Dribbling, pivoting, passing, offense/defense and generally the whole game are some of the things that may fly past a kid  this age much like a basketball itself being passed.

We practiced dribbling at home in the garage for 5 minutes one night until G got bored with it. I added a bounce pass and a straight to the chest pass on different nights with the same result.

Dad, instead of basketball, can we box?

Dad, can you bolt my bike to your rollers?

Dad, can we build a jump for our bikes in the garage for when its raining outside and you won't take me to the Lumberyard like right now?

Basketball wasn't seeming to 'take'. Until they learned about blocking an opponent. This brought the physical aspect of the game to his attention. G likes a challenge. The adrenaline rush of direct competition. Mano a mano. At first when blocking, all the kids looked like they were just doing jumping jacks. G changed that up one Saturday when he curled his fingers like claws above his head, made a scowl to drive fear into the ball holding opponent and growled like a bear. The other kid just passed the ball around the grizzly in a Lakers jersey.

I'm a bear! Are you scared? G asked

No. The other kid says.

Oh.

Gavin?! What are you doing? Coach interjects.

I was blocking like you told us. But I was a Bear. I was gonna be a Dinosaur but their arms are too short to hold the ball.

Coach walks away.

A week later, G finds himself blocking his opponent who has the ball, but this time he doesn't act like an animal. The other kid dribbles the ball and fakes left. Gavin follows. The kid starts to go right and G opts for the flying kick. For real.

The other kid waits for him to land on the ground, dribbles around him, shoots, misses and a teammate gets the ball and actually makes the basket. G is back up and now well out of bounds doing karate chops and round house kicks to his shadow against the folded up bleachers.



doesn't care he has to repeat...again!

In the meantime we are continuing with swim lessons. When I ask G what he likes best of his current activities: swimming, basketball or riding bikes, he says, Swimming and bikes. I like swimming because it's like I can fly underwater. I like riding bikes because I'm as fast as a Cheetah.

I can't argue with those motivators so I make a mental note that high speed sports are what he likes. I should probably buy a Ducati. Then the swim teacher tells me that the class that he is repeating, he'll have to repeat again. The first repeat was because he kicked his legs as if he was pedaling a bike. Now it's because he doesn't extend his arms with his strokes. The coach says it looks like he's punching the water.

So I ask; Your not moving your arms like swim coach is trying to teach you. What's that about?

I'm punching the water.

Why?

Because it's bad.

Why is the water bad?

Well, I can't breath when I'm underwater, and if I take the goggles off it burns my eyes. And it smells funny and you and mom make me take a bath to wash it off as soon as we get home.

So we're back to riding bikes. I can handle that. 'How To' books are boring anyway. Over-bearing Parent books sell better.