Not long ago, shortly after we'd had a close encounter of the disciplinary kind, my 12-year-old son, Marlon, came to me with a smile on his face and asked if I was up for a little one-on-one at the hoop in the driveway. Given that Marlon pouts as readily as other people breathe, I was surprised and pleased by the invitation. I had figured that I was in for at least a day of wrathful silence and accusatory looks. But here was my son with an open grin and a friendly challenge. It warmed the cockles of his old dad's heart.
Which only goes to prove how naive his old dad can be.As soon as I stepped onto the driveway with the kid, a physical change came over him. His body grew taut, his eyes became lasers, and he proceeded to use his poor father like a power tool. In short order, an outside jumper dropped soundlessly through the net. A lay-up floated over my outstretched hand and into the basket. He executed a twisting, crazy drive, climbing halfway up my chest to drop in a shot that, I am fairly sure, violated half a dozen laws of physics.
Next thing I knew, I was sweating and breathless and down 3-zip, which is a fairly sizable hole when (as a concession to Dad's lousy conditioning) you're only playing to 10. It was at that moment, gripping my knees, contemplating the tar, struggling for air, that I realized what I should've known all along: This was no friendly game.
This was a challenge.
It's been my experience that there comes a time when sons test their fathers. A time when the young lion has to take the old one's measure, to see if he's still got it - whatever it may be. The test may be physical or it may be intellectual, but sooner or later the kid's going to try to take the old man out.
I understood that perfectly, as Marlon heaved the ball to me with a vaguely contemptuous air.
The thing about my athletic ability is, well, that I have none. Unless, of course, there's some sport where old-lady stamina, elephantine grace and coltish coordination count for something, in which case I'd be a gold medalist.
I beat Marlon fairly often when we play hoops, but I don't kid myself. It's only because I'm bigger and stronger than him. Actually, my son is all the things I'm not: He's quick and graceful, with a deadly shot and a killer crossover dribble. And I know that there will come a day - sooner than I'd like - when he will, on a regular basis, whip me like a recalcitrant mule. "Just not today," I told myself as I began dribbling toward the hoop.
In some ways it was easier for me - albeit more confusing - when Marlon's older brother, Markise, entered the time of testing. Markise and I didn't play basketball. We played board games. I've always liked board games. But somehow, roughly between the time Markise was 13 and 17 years old, the games became a tug-of-war, and I became the biggest cheater you ever saw. Whether we were playing Monopoly or Risk, Markise, who's now 20, would loudly question every move I made. He'd call a halt to the proceedings and drag out the rule book, combing its contents in an effort to document my cheating. Not surprisingly, Markise is now studying to be a lawyer.
"Markise," I would say, "it's just a game." I didn't yet understand that it was anything but.
Frankly, part of me resents this testing between old blood and new. I've always considered myself the coolest of dads. I'd be willing to bet that among all his friends, Markise is the only one whose father can speak with authority on the differences - thematic, musical and otherwise - between Ice Cube and Snoop Doggy Dogg. I'd make a similar bet that Marlon has the only father who can, at a moment's notice, offer a reasoned discourse on such imponderables as: Who would win in a fight to the death between Wolverine and the Human Torch?
The thing I've had to realize is that one's coolness isn't the issue. What matters is that there comes a time when a boy stands on the threshold of manhood and wants to prove to himself how close he is. And the most convenient yardstick is Dad.
If you're Dad, and especially if this is your first time being tested, your reaction is - huh? And who can blame you for being surprised? For 11 years, the kid has regarded you as a sage on the order of Moses, a wise prophet and lawgiver. Then one day you wake up and find that you're the enemy.
This makes the second time I've had such a confrontation. I've got one more son to go - 9-year-old Bryan - and I suspect that the last may be the worst. He is, after all, the same child who, at the age of 2, sized me up, gave me a gummy smile, and announced, "One day I'm going to kill you so I can marry Mommy." For a year after that, I called him Oedipus. My wife had to make me stop.
As far as I'm concerned, boys on the verge of manhood are the single best argument against late-life fatherhood. What are you going to do to stop a hot-blooded 13-year-old from driving through you to the hoop when you're 60? Trip him with your walker? Trust me, it's hard enough to hold your own even in your late 30s.
Of course, I suppose there is an alternative. There's nothing that says we have to strain and struggle and almost kill ourselves to blunt the challenge of onrushing youth. We could be big and gracious about it. We could accept our limitations. Cede the pride to the younger lion. Be mature.
Heck, maybe we should even be flattered. The boy wants to gauge his manhood, and the best standard he can think of to measure himself against is Dad. Kind of makes you feel warm all over when you look at it that way.
Yeah, right. I don't buy it either.
It's a man thing, I guess, like in John Wayne movies. "Ya fight back till ya can't fight back no more. Ya don't give in till they shovel the dirt in yer face, pilgrim."
And perhaps, in a backward, organic and unintended way, that's the lesson a father teaches an impatient son by refusing to give in on the driveway or at the game board or wherever. Toughness. Fortitude. Pride.
That's my story, at least, and I'm sticking to it.
That day in the driveway, Marlon and I played a game for the ages. A game they should write epic poetry about. I mean, Larry Bird versus Magic Johnson in game seven of the finals couldn't have been more intense. I backed him in, put up pump fakes and finger rolls, scrambled for loose balls, fought for rebounds. Marlon drove the lane, popped in outside shots, swatted the ball out of my hands.
When it was over, when the earth dared to breathe again, I had clawed my way to victory by the narrowest of margins: 10-9.
Afterward - wheezing like an asthmatic smoker, sweat rushing off my brow - I called him over so that I could impart a Life Lesson. I told him I knew why he had contested me with such feverish intensity. "You played for the wrong reasons," I counseled. He nodded as if he understood.
A few weeks later, he challenged me to a friendly round of video-game boxing. Beat me soundly. And laughed while he did it.
We've since moved on to Stratego, where, thankfully, my innate sneakiness has given me an insurmountable edge. But looking at Marlon across the game board, I can see his brain working, see him learning from each defeat. And I know the future is coming like a Mack truck with a brick wedged against the accelerator. I expect the Stratego contests to turn bloody any day now.
And all the while, my youngest, Bryan, watches me with a serene and knowing smile.
Markise will soon be coming home from college for a visit, and I'm glad. I'm looking forward to a nice, quiet game of Monopoly.