Watching Basketball with his Son
Posted on June 12, 2007
Robert leaned forward in the recliner and pointed at the TV. “See how he bends his knees like that,” he said, “that’s what you’re doing wrong. You have to get low when you’re playing defense.” Michael, his son, looked up from a handheld video game and whimpered. Robert continued: “You play lazy, and that’s why they always beat you.”
Michael got up to leave the room, but Robert stopped him. He snatched the video game and shut it down. “Stay a minute, see how they play,” he said, using his arm to guide Michael to the couch. Michael slumped forward and leaned on his palms, watching through splayed fingers. They’d watched this game before, maybe a dozen times. Each time, Robert tried to get his son to appreciate the nuances of great basketball—the head fakes, the way players moved off the ball, the subtle should shimmy to slice through the lane. Mostly, though, he wanted Michael to see the hustle. A tiny guard rushed back to block a fast break lay-up from behind, pinning the ball against the backboard as the shooter sulked away. Robert pumped a fist and shouted as if seeing it for the first time. He could feel the redness in his face—whenever he yelled, the blood rushed to his head, and, lately, he felt a tightness in his chest. It was too late for him to get in great shape, but not yet for his son. Almost, though.
Michael hunched forward to pet the dog and his shirt lifted up, allowing the fatty rolls to spill out over his waist. He was thirteen, and he was fat. They told him he would grow into it, but that was a lie. He wouldn’t ever stop, because he didn’t care. He was lazy, and he would rather clatter away on the computer than go outside and play with real people. His friends were fat too, and Robert hated when they came to the house, their mouths outlined with chocolate and fruit punch, their eyes dulled by years of staring blankly at the monitor. When they came over, they’d take turns in the computer chair, shooting at aliens, or pretending to be goblins and trolls. The ones who didn’t play barely talked—they just shoveled food into their mouths mindlessly. At the end of the night, their seats were always outlined in dropped popcorn.
“Dad,” Michael said, “can I have my game back?”
“Watch this play.” Another fast break, this time ending in an alley-oop. “See how quick those guys are? You can’t do that stuff unless you work out.” He turned the volume up so Michael wouldn’t hear the faint jingle of the ice cream truck as it approached. “Don’t you want to play like these guys?” he asked, poking Michael in the ribs.
“They don’t even put me in the games.”
“They don’t put you in because you’re out of shape.” He’d given up on soccer after three years, baseball after one, and tennis after two weeks. He would probably quit on basketball for after this year too, and then they’d move on to football. After that, what was left? Robert was never a star, but he’d been a good athlete and had his varsity letters.
“Would it kill you just to try to like it a little?”
“But I hate it,” he said. “Why can’t I do what I want to do?”
His wife yelled from the kitchen: “Are you giving him that old lecture again, Robert?”
“Just trying to show him what it’s like to be a great athlete,” he said. The ice cream truck had turned down their street. No matter how loud he made the TV, the jingle danced over it. Michael rushed out of the living room to fetch a dollar from his mom, and then charged toward the truck.
Robert stood in the doorway, eyeing his son as he nibbled on the edges of a nutty buddy. His cheeks were smeared with ice cream, and he waved at his father. Robert turned away and walked back inside. He knew he was supposed to his love Michael because he was his son, but he just couldn’t. He flopped back in his recliner and stared at the TV, knowing everything that was coming, and wishing he could be a part of it all.
Filed Under TMC, Basketball, bad parenting, childhood obesity | Leave a Comment
