Gentleman, Gentle, Man

I'm working on an idea here.  Stay with me. 

Last night, I watched the Tom Hanks movie, "Larry Crowne."  Not a big film but it made an impression on me.  One of several sub-texts to the film is the simple concept of behaving as a gentleman.  The issue caught me as I struggle with the familiarity that developed between my wife and I in what will be 20 years of marriage as of August this year.  Once I thought that familiarity would be an expression of intimacy, closeness, and sense of invulnerability in our union.  But it's also bred poor behavior in me, behaviors my wife sometimes mirrors as a defense mechanism.  Worse yet, these behaviors aren't lost on my observant son who expresses them himself in moments where he feels the need to establish his independence.

These are crucial issues of manhood and fatherhood that I need to think through before I write on them more fully.  Before this gets real in a hurry.  Please stay tuned.

Worry

Worry isn't manly.  I am a lifetime worrier. I am not manly.

Of course the logical fallacy in the statement above is obvious; or at least it's not true for me.  I've made a lifetime study of manliness and at some point in my son's early life, I concluded that the manner in which I was expressing fatherhood was about as manly as it gets.  Not action-seeking in wartime manly.  Not notches in the bedpost manly.  Just plain old bringing up mine with the best possible foundation for his own manhood, manly.

And the whole time I worried.  I used a certain amount of strictness and set high bars for behavior and contribution to the household in tending to my son (he's a very good kid with little tenable sass).  I tried to set the proper example by overtly engaging in needed tending of the castle; tending I expected my son to gravitate toward as he aged (he mostly hasn't, although at 14 he's getting better and I usually only have to ask three times now).  But I also worried that I demanded more of him than any kid of his age would ever realistically provide.  And that lead to the worry that from time to time he would feel as though he could not please me or that I had broken his own independent spirit.  I still worry about the former but fortunately appear not to have accomplished the latter (phew!).

And now I am worried about his arm.  That arm that has brought him so much positive attention and from which he's accrued so much self-esteem.  The arm with which he was striking out 10-year olds on the small diamond, only months after he turned 7.  The arm that we have nurtured, protected, developed according to methods recommended and overseen by experts.  The arm he injured pitching in a 13U travel baseball tournament two weekend ago.

He's a well-rounded baseball player and doesn't need to pitch to make appropriate contributions to his team.  But when he does, he has been very successful, and he's very taken by the process of developing his pitcher-self.  I derive no small measure of relief from my worry through his spirit demonstrated since right after the game in which he was hurt.  His gameness for a diagnosis.  His gameness to attack the physical therapy prescribed after obtaining that diagnosis.  His determination to get past this moment (he certainly views it as "momentary") and begin preparing for his first season as a high school player during the course of the coming off-season.

But having sustained serious ligament injuries in both my knees playing rugby through the years, I understand all too well the repercussions of potential under-diagnosis or under-treatment in this situation.  And so I worry that he won't get better with physical therapy, that his injury is too severe, and that he won't pitch again.  I worry because I care.  Whether or not it's manly to care.  Because this boy is a piece of me and the only authentic legacy of my wife and I.  And he deserves the greatest possible opportunity at self-actualization we can provide him.

Things I did before my son got good at baseball

Walking out the nose on a perfect longboard day on the Washington Coast.  I surfed very regularly until my son made his first all star team at 9 years old.  That same year, we broke ground on a house built in the dunes near my favorite sandbar.  And yet, I have surfed less each year since.  Ironic.  But then sacrifice is an surprising ingredient in the well-lived life of a parent.  Besides, I still manage to paddle out a few times a year and have yet to lose my groove.  With the boy hurt now, I might find a couple of extra days in the waves this summer.  The thought leaves me content.

Right Elbow

Something in there isn't working quite right at the moment.  Well it might be working, but it's a bit uncomfortable in certain positions.  So my little pitcher won't be throwing for the next couple of months while whatever is wrong has a chance to heal.  He's handling that news much better than I have.  But he's still itching to get back in and help his team win any way he can.  You want to understand competitiveness.  That's it.

Dilettante

Back with a new post for the first time in three months.  I regret the interruption and hope that what few readers actually pause here to inspect my muse understand why I've been where I've been.

One day I was certain I was on course to stick with my interest in grappling through the welcoming community at Foster Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, and finally progress in this esoteric sport that I find both captivating and maddening as a practitioner.  The next day, I found myself foreclosed from class attendance, an essential ingredient in the recipe for success in the pursuit of grappling skill and promotion in the discipline of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.  My problem was, I was perfectly content in knowing I couldn't make classes this spring, being the father of a talented 13 year old baseball player working hard to pursue his own dreams of sporting achievement.  I didn't care that I couldn't play anymore.

Although I didn't mind sacrificing my practice to be my son's taxi service and personal athletic butler, I needed and found solace, as I always have, in a renewed effort in the gym, attending to my own physical fitness, alone.  I also looked after my son's fitness as the season wore on, and his new-found adolescent physicality wonderfully lifted his baseball performance this year, both at the plate and on the mound.  In a single week in June, he both hit a homerun and pitched a shutout, the latter against one of the strongest hitting teams in his very competitive select league.

And then on Father's Day, he hurt his pitching arm in bracket play at a travel tournament in another part of our state, his team crumbled behind him, and we slunk back to Seattle wondering what had just happened to his baseball dream.  The event of his injury forced me to consider, misty-eyed, his utter dedication to baseball, his dual crafts pitching and hitting, and compare his commitment to mine.  In that consideration, I came to realize that I was a mere physical dilettante; having tried so many activities in a lifetime indulgence in physical culture and having been only sorta good at each but master of none.  Including Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.  Especially Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.

So what the fuck am I really good at now?  I'll tell you what.  I may be a red-assed, jewish-atheist, city-lovin' goof draped in a superhero cape disguised as a physical culturist.  But I am also a fucking great father.  I know what I like and what I like doing, and I know what my midlife physical limitations will prevent me form ever doing again.  And knowing that stuff, I am happy to commit, fully, to being myself.  A dad.

With that, I plan to discontinue the 50-year old white belt blog in favor of a more full journal of my life as a dad.  Cliche blog maybe, but I don't do this for anyone but me.  No more linkies to blogs I like. Or fuck-all blog ads that don't pay shit unless the writer loads his grist with search words and such.  Just me, my family, and our modern life.

If you came here for the fighting, thanks.  I hope you'll stay.  If you don't, good travels and fare well.  Thanks for having read this crap.