Soccer Dad

As usual, we were rushing headlong to make it to my son's soccer game. Some people are perfectly punctual; others are punctually late. I'm in the latter group. I'm sure it's genetic.

Anyway, I was scurrying for the door and called to my older son, "Are you coming to the game?" Like most 17 year olds, he's got better things to do than watch his 13 year old brother play soccer. He peeked out from under the covers, "No, Dad; maybe next time."

I was frustrated. What I want is for my son to value doing the "family thing" without being coerced. I want him to realize that the world doesn't revolve around him, and to decide on his own that seeing his brother play soccer is a good use of his time.

The problem is, what I want is something my son can only give freely. If I force him to come he will, but that's not really the point. He's practically an adult; he needs to start acting like one.

So I mumble something about, "Well, I sure hope you'll find time somewhere to see your brother play. After all, you haven't been to a single game all season."

It looks more pleasant than it sounded. I'm really good at the "I'll act like I'm not really mad, but you know I really am" game. Or maybe I'm not as good at that game as I think I am. In truth, I was upset and my son knew it.

I got in the car and, like all good Dads, continued to ventilate on my wife. She, like all good wives, was deeply appreciative. I got the message and kept my fuming to myself.

"He's only got a few more months at home," I thought. "Five years from now, will he be glad he slept in, or will he wish he'd gone to his brother's game?"

Then I thought, "He's only got a few more months at home. Five years from now, will I be glad I got on his case, or will I wish I had been a more understanding Dad?"

I hate it when that happens.