Not long ago and not far away, something special happened. You may be excused, dear reader, for dismissing it as quite nearly nothing at all, once I get around to the details, but for now, please trust me when I say, "life is short, so treasure each moment."
Our perspective on lifespan is highly influenced by whatever age we happen to be when we think about it. My sister Kathy, for instance, whilst a teenager, told me she knew she wouldn't live past 29. Her certainty actually alarmed me, because I had no such insights into when my own demise might occur.
Luckily, she was dead wrong, and happily for all of us, she's already made it to twice that fateful age. Meanwhile, I rather blithely flirted with death at age 24, averting that fate (according to my doctors) by about an hour on January 10, 1971.
India. A hospital bed. Doctors and nurses hovering with worried faces. Fluids pouring out of any exit point my badly dehydrated body could provide.
"What's this?" thought I, in my semi-delirious state. "Death here, now, like this?"
"Hell no," came back the answer.
Thus I am still here tonight, nearly 37 years later, recounting this tale.
Let's see, where did the next length of the thread of this post go?
Aha! Since I was spared death in that distant place so long ago, I eventually reproduced, not once or twice but six times! And the fifth of those six special children is my youngest son, Dylan, 11 years old at present, with a prodigious appetite for serious books by serious historians.
The last time Dylan played competitive sports was, what, five years ago? Because he was playing with his older brother's peers, he was declared ineligible to stay on the team, and that was the end of his interest in team sports.
Until recently. Somehow he decided to give basketball a try. Tonight, he actually got into a game. His team won 16-11. He played about one minute of the 28 minute game and he didn't make a single mistake. In fact, he never actually touched the ball. But he did run back and forth with his teammates, locating the proper position on the court where he was to play, held his arms up in defense, and maintained an alert, watchful presence while he was on the floor.
In addition, he rooted on his teammates from the bench, placed his hands in with the others for the team cheer, and lined up to shake the opponents' hands after his team's victory.
From the scorer's table, where I worked the game, the best moment of this story for me was when I looked up and saw little number 4 reporting that he was the next guy checking into the game. He knelt next to us, as all incoming players do, and when the buzzer sounded, in he went.
Sorry to say, I had to look down at the score sheet so no one would see the emotion in my eyes.
Don't get me wrong. Sports, especially kids' sports are, of course, a minor concern in our world filled with dangers and confusion. I must appear to be a sports fanatic to some of you, given my frequent postings about baseball, the Giants, and other sports. To others, I must seem like a typical soccer mom, i.e., a parent so focused on his own kid's athletic accomplishments that he easily loses sight of the bigger picture.
Well, I plead guilty to all of the above...guilty as charged.
But, this little story is not about me, it is about Dylan W., as he invariably signs his name. I am very proud of my youngest son, because I know how much he dreaded going out there, in front of an audience, and performing under the glare of the lights.
This little boy will one day do great things, I believe. They probably will not be on a basketball court. But his willingness to try and compete in an alien environment will serve him somehow, someway, I'm quite sure.
Congratulations, number four!
p.s. I love you -- Dad.
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