The Dying Year: Captain Ordinary, Isn't

When my oldest son was a freshman a new varsity football coach was hired at his high school. The man brought an old-school approach to leadership that was blunt, and direct. He didn't coddle anyone, or pull punches. In my opinion, he was exactly what our community of young men needed. Especially my son.

Coach 'B' identified my son as a potential leader, immediately. He also identified him as someone

who was relying on the abundance of talent God gave him, and doing very little to develop it. He started riding my son's ass. Hard. So hard, in fact, my son approached me about quitting.

I recognized what was happening, and told my son he could, in one year, after the season he'd begun, was over. "Until then," I said, "I want you to challenge yourself to do everything that man asks you to do without questioning it, and I want you to do it with the best effort you can offer. You do not have to like him. You do not have to agree with him. And you don't have to speak to him outside the context of football. When you've done all that, and your sophomore year is done, if you still want to quit, I'll support you."

To my son's credit he did everything I asked. No matter how hard his ass was chewed (and it was chewed hard, and often) he did what Coach B challenged him to do. He stuck with football, and during his senior year was named the San Francisco 49er's High School Player of the week, not for a dazzling statistical performance (99 yards rushing & 3 touchdowns), but for, as the nominating reporter put it, "..his selfless attitude, and leadership, on the football field." During the end of the year football banquet Coach B fought back tears, and credited my son's effort, and attitude, as the key to a mid-season turn around that led to a second place finish in the Central Coast Section, something accomplished only twice before in the school's 55-year history.

Sticks and Stones

When the seniors presented the coaches with mementos of gratitude, my son presented Coach B's. In front of a packed auditorium he told Coach B he'd been the "single biggest influence in his life", and thanked him for pushing him to new limits. When he was done my son walked to where I was, and sat in the vacant seat beside me. He didn't say a word. I looked at him, and studied his face as he looked straight ahead at the stage.
"You understand now?" I asked. My son looked down at his hands for a moment, and then back at the stage. Finally, he turned to look at me. "Dad," he said, "I understand completely."
"Good," I said, and smiled.

I've had numerous people ask if it hurt my feelings when my son said his coach was the most influential man in his life in front of a large public audience that included me. My answer hasn't changed.

The answer is 'no', and when I'm asked why, I say this:

I say I know who my son calls when his heart is breaking, or uncertain.
I say I'm glad he has other options if what I say falls short.
And I say my job is to parent, not to compete to be one of his Heroes.

To be authentic with the self I'm confined to, and embody, I have to be honest about what I'm capable, and incapable of manifesting. My admissions around those things allow me to serve my son's best interests. They allow me to acknowledge what he needs, and desires. If I want to help him get those things I have to be able to admit what I can provide, and what I can't.

For the things outside my reach, I look to the people within it. I look to them to provide what I can't, and agree not to be threatened by the appetite, and value, my son places upon what he's offered by others. I try to teach my sons that the world is full of ordinary heroes, and they're waiting for the accident that will expose them, and their gift. I want them to understand that when theirs is called upon, and illuminated (and it will be), they have an obligation to employ it.

No Single Nod

When I was growing up I hungered for a compliment from my father. Part of that hunger was the common hunger a son has for his father's approval, and recognition. The other part was the universal need to be loved, and valued without having to jump through a ring of fire to get it..

Despite those needs,
I never received a single compliment. Not one.

The only thing close to a compliment that I can recall came when I was an adult, during my 21st year. I was home from San Diego State after having flunked out, and was throwing a party at my father's house. He wasn't home for the majority of it, but returned from a night of drinking early enough to participate in the last, late night hours of it sputtering to an end.

He came in through the front door and immediately began to antagonize D.T., a 6'4", 240-pound drunk ex-defensive tackle from our 1980 varsity football team. He had backed him into a corner with insults, and chest bumps delivered with his unstable, 54 year-old frame. By the time I got there, and locked my father's arms behind his back to redirect him, D.T. was so worked up it took 3 others to escort him to the keg for a cool down. My father was five-nine on tiptoes.

He continued to resist my hold, so I led him to the doorway, and outside. That's when he delivered the only compliment he ever gave me, and it came in the guise of a put-down. I had lifted weights religiously during the two years I'd been gone, and was bigger and stronger than I'd ever been. As I released my dad he turned and said, "This is what I expected you to look like in

high school." My father was impressed by, and respectful of, my physical stature, and as sad as it is to admit, his recognition of it filled me with pride. Even with the belittling of it.

So this is what it feels like to be complimented, and acknowledged?

Absentee Heroes

I've been fortunate to have a few male friends who not only care about me, they care about my sons, as well. I'm grateful for that. I'm also respectful of their value as it pertains to my sons, and their developing assessment of the world. It's impossible for a boy to feel confident about the vision he has of his father without a point of reference to measure it against. And most boys need to know that the vision they hold is accurate. They need to know that their father is someone of value to the world if they hope to become a man of value themselves.

I remember spending time with my father, and his friends, hoping one of them would gravitate toward me. I remember hoping one of them would ask how I was, in a sort of unspoken acknowledgement of my father's shortcomings. I wanted one of them to open the door just enough to tell me that if I ever needed to come through, it was open, so I could see there were different types of men than the kind my father was. None did. Instead, they remained loyal to whatever perspective he had of his sons, and never did anything to challenge, or contradict it. They admired my older brother. My younger was granted access as their equal. And I was written off, and ignored.

When my sons got old enough to form their own opinions of things I chose the man closest to me, and most familiar to them, as a touchstone. I told my sons that if they ever needed to talk to someone about me they had permission to go to this man, and say whatever they wanted. They could go to him without my consent, or knowledge, and with the assurance that my friend had been instructed not to let me know. I wanted my sons to know a different fraternity than the one I'd known. I wanted them to know a fraternity of men who supported one another, and whose only loyalty was to the well being of those they cared about.

Validation Has It's Own Compass

Over the past weekend I received the only validation I'll ever need again. It's arrival is an off-handed compliment to my father, as well. The way he parented me is responsible for the parent I've become, and if it was all part of a bigger plan anticipating the sons I have, then thank you.
-I got a call from one son asking to talk about something he was going through, something intricate and personal. I didn't know the depth to which my insights were valued, or considered helpful. I didn't know the space I occupied for him. I do now.

-I was told by another son that he had a school assignment that required he write 20 poems, and that he wrote 3 about his personal heroes. He said two of his heroes were family members. One, he said, was one of his brothers. And the other was me.

I didn't ask why, and I didn't ask what he had written. I'm not ready to know either one. I'm still trying to make sense of how it happened, and I'm still drowning in the gratitude I feel. I always believed I'd done more harm to my sons, than good. I thought I was responsible for the damage they've incurred. Maybe I am. But now I know I did more than that. I know my efforts to make them whole were appreciated, and seen. I know my humility as a father was recognized.

Those are ridiculous compliments to be given by them as their first, considering it took twenty-one years to collect the single, false compliment I was paid by my father.

I have an alter ego that serves as an unassuming superhero to the only individuals I ever hoped to rescue.

I'm Captain Ordinary, and I'm lost.

I'm as lost as anyone.
I'm just as confused, and more afraid.
And somehow, those characteristics became super powers whose expression helped others find themselves.

It's ironic, but when that happens, I know exactly where I stand.

I'm Captain Ordinary, and I'm more than I dreamed I'd be.

Up, up,

and way, way, way far away.