The Power of Redemption
TheFinalThird
Posts: 315 Member
There may be more typos in this post than many of my others. That is because as I sit here, I am typing through tears of sadness. And tears of joy. All because of something that happened to 12 year old me in 1973, and to my 12 year old son, Jake, this morning.
This morning, I was bound and determined to stretch my daily walk. It had been hovering in the 2.5 to 2.75 mile range (distance wise). This morning, I got on gmap-pedometer and plotted out a course that was exactly 3.001214 miles. Mrs. Third and I were headed into uncharted territory (distance wise, anyway).
Now, a three mile walk doesn't sound like all that to most of you. However, over recent days, I am lugging around 438 pounds in my walking shoes. I live where, in late-September, it is still 84 degrees and 70% humidity at 10 a.m. I am a previously sedentary, just recently a little active, 51 year old balding, crotchety old fart (hey, kid, get offa my lawn!). And I am challenged by a medical situation that makes things a bit more difficult, the specifics of which I choose not to share right now.
Anyway, Mrs. Third and I strapped on our fitbits, walking shoes, ipods, and such. One hour later, we had completed our pre-mapped 3.001214 mile route. She looked like she had enjoyed a good walk. I looked like I had just driven through a high pressure car wash with the windows rolled down.
I peeled off my underamour shirt (you know, the kind that is supposed to keep you cool and dry) and noticed that it felt about four pounds heavier than when we left. I removed my eyeglasses. I had to, because they were fogged up from sweat and humidity. And I sat down at the keyboard to record my exercise.
Now, if you've read my previous posts, you know that exercising in the heat and humidity of Texas Gulf Coast summer (which extends pretty much from May to October), especially to exertion, sometimes leaves me feeling moody and cranky. By the second or third 20 ounce glass of water and several minutes in cool, dry, air conditioning, I am usually back to my only mildly cranky and crotchety self (hey kid, do me a favor and try to avoid my lawn in the future. Thank you.).
Today was no exception. In fact, perhaps because it was extra special warm and humid, and we added about 20% more distance onto our usual walk, I was in rare form. Which was bad for my mood and about to be bad for my unsuspecting son, Jake.
As I sat down at the computer to catch my breath, remove my saturated shirt and fogged glasses, and come back to some sense of normal breathing, Jake bounded over with a heaping helping of Saturday morning Lego-fueled enthusiasm. You see, in the hour that Mrs. Third and I spent slogging through the neighborhood, Jake used a digital camera to make a short stop-action movie involving his most recent Lego creations.
"Hey Daddoo, want to see the movie that I made with my Legos while you were gone?"
Now, if a hot women had just said, "hey Third, wanna watch me do a striptease on your bed," as tired and exhausted as I was, I probably would have unenthusiatically responded, "sure, give me a few minutes and I'll be right over." But watch a stop action Lego movie? I can't think of anything that I wanted to do less at that exact moment.
"No. I just got back from exercising. I really don't, Jake."
I regretted the words the millisecond that they left my lips. I watched his shoulders slump a bit as he turned, walked away and said, "that's ok."
But it wasn't. And I knew it. I immediately flashed back to twelve year old Scott. 1973. My team was playing in the Edgemere Boys Athletic Club major league championship game. I had a chance to win the league MVP. Doing well in that game might give me the chance I needed to win the big trophy. In two years of youth baseball, my parents had never seen me play. We were poor. It seemed like my mom was always doing laundry, cleaning, cooking or whatever else was necessary for us to survive in a federally funded 3-bedroom apartment crammed with two parents and six children. It seemed like my father was alway coming off working the night shift setting type at the New York Times, trying to catch a few hours of sleep before heading off to his day job teaching graphic arts at a New York City junior high school. Watching one kid play baseball was a luxury they simply couldn't afford while trying to support and raise a family of six children, all with their own issues and needs.
But this was special. This was the championship game. I wanted them to see me play this one time.
"Could you come to my game today? It is the last game of the season."
"I'm sorry. There's just too much to do around here. And Saturday is your father's only day to catch up on his sleep. Go do well."
My response? The same one that I had just heard from MY 12 year old son, Jake. "That's ok."
But it wasn't. And I knew it. Like Doug Flutie with 6 seconds left against the University of Miami, I quickly scrambled in an effort for Jake not to experience the sadness and unimportance that I felt on that day in 1973.
"Hey Jake?"
He turned around. "Yeah Dad?"
"Mom and I walked a lot farther than we usually walk this morning. My shirt is totally soaked with sweat and I feel a little weak. I need a few glasses of water to get back to feeling better. Can you set the alarm on your iPod for one hour from now so that you absolutely do not forget to show me your movie? I don't want to take any chance that either of us will forget it."
"Sure Dad. That's great. Thanks."
I could tell from the broad smile on his face and the uplift in his shoulders that I had fixed what, seconds before, I had so badly broken. I turned away so that he could not see the tears streaming down my face.
I did not win the MVP trophy back in 1973. My 11 home runs, 44 runs batted in, and .464 batting average earned me second place in the MVP voting behind Mark Brodie and his .700+ batting average. But this morning, I snatched victory from the jaws of defeat in the eyes of my 12 year old son. At least for this morning, he would not live with the pain and disappointment that I experienced when I was his age. And that is a very good thing.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a movie to watch.
This morning, I was bound and determined to stretch my daily walk. It had been hovering in the 2.5 to 2.75 mile range (distance wise). This morning, I got on gmap-pedometer and plotted out a course that was exactly 3.001214 miles. Mrs. Third and I were headed into uncharted territory (distance wise, anyway).
Now, a three mile walk doesn't sound like all that to most of you. However, over recent days, I am lugging around 438 pounds in my walking shoes. I live where, in late-September, it is still 84 degrees and 70% humidity at 10 a.m. I am a previously sedentary, just recently a little active, 51 year old balding, crotchety old fart (hey, kid, get offa my lawn!). And I am challenged by a medical situation that makes things a bit more difficult, the specifics of which I choose not to share right now.
Anyway, Mrs. Third and I strapped on our fitbits, walking shoes, ipods, and such. One hour later, we had completed our pre-mapped 3.001214 mile route. She looked like she had enjoyed a good walk. I looked like I had just driven through a high pressure car wash with the windows rolled down.
I peeled off my underamour shirt (you know, the kind that is supposed to keep you cool and dry) and noticed that it felt about four pounds heavier than when we left. I removed my eyeglasses. I had to, because they were fogged up from sweat and humidity. And I sat down at the keyboard to record my exercise.
Now, if you've read my previous posts, you know that exercising in the heat and humidity of Texas Gulf Coast summer (which extends pretty much from May to October), especially to exertion, sometimes leaves me feeling moody and cranky. By the second or third 20 ounce glass of water and several minutes in cool, dry, air conditioning, I am usually back to my only mildly cranky and crotchety self (hey kid, do me a favor and try to avoid my lawn in the future. Thank you.).
Today was no exception. In fact, perhaps because it was extra special warm and humid, and we added about 20% more distance onto our usual walk, I was in rare form. Which was bad for my mood and about to be bad for my unsuspecting son, Jake.
As I sat down at the computer to catch my breath, remove my saturated shirt and fogged glasses, and come back to some sense of normal breathing, Jake bounded over with a heaping helping of Saturday morning Lego-fueled enthusiasm. You see, in the hour that Mrs. Third and I spent slogging through the neighborhood, Jake used a digital camera to make a short stop-action movie involving his most recent Lego creations.
"Hey Daddoo, want to see the movie that I made with my Legos while you were gone?"
Now, if a hot women had just said, "hey Third, wanna watch me do a striptease on your bed," as tired and exhausted as I was, I probably would have unenthusiatically responded, "sure, give me a few minutes and I'll be right over." But watch a stop action Lego movie? I can't think of anything that I wanted to do less at that exact moment.
"No. I just got back from exercising. I really don't, Jake."
I regretted the words the millisecond that they left my lips. I watched his shoulders slump a bit as he turned, walked away and said, "that's ok."
But it wasn't. And I knew it. I immediately flashed back to twelve year old Scott. 1973. My team was playing in the Edgemere Boys Athletic Club major league championship game. I had a chance to win the league MVP. Doing well in that game might give me the chance I needed to win the big trophy. In two years of youth baseball, my parents had never seen me play. We were poor. It seemed like my mom was always doing laundry, cleaning, cooking or whatever else was necessary for us to survive in a federally funded 3-bedroom apartment crammed with two parents and six children. It seemed like my father was alway coming off working the night shift setting type at the New York Times, trying to catch a few hours of sleep before heading off to his day job teaching graphic arts at a New York City junior high school. Watching one kid play baseball was a luxury they simply couldn't afford while trying to support and raise a family of six children, all with their own issues and needs.
But this was special. This was the championship game. I wanted them to see me play this one time.
"Could you come to my game today? It is the last game of the season."
"I'm sorry. There's just too much to do around here. And Saturday is your father's only day to catch up on his sleep. Go do well."
My response? The same one that I had just heard from MY 12 year old son, Jake. "That's ok."
But it wasn't. And I knew it. Like Doug Flutie with 6 seconds left against the University of Miami, I quickly scrambled in an effort for Jake not to experience the sadness and unimportance that I felt on that day in 1973.
"Hey Jake?"
He turned around. "Yeah Dad?"
"Mom and I walked a lot farther than we usually walk this morning. My shirt is totally soaked with sweat and I feel a little weak. I need a few glasses of water to get back to feeling better. Can you set the alarm on your iPod for one hour from now so that you absolutely do not forget to show me your movie? I don't want to take any chance that either of us will forget it."
"Sure Dad. That's great. Thanks."
I could tell from the broad smile on his face and the uplift in his shoulders that I had fixed what, seconds before, I had so badly broken. I turned away so that he could not see the tears streaming down my face.
I did not win the MVP trophy back in 1973. My 11 home runs, 44 runs batted in, and .464 batting average earned me second place in the MVP voting behind Mark Brodie and his .700+ batting average. But this morning, I snatched victory from the jaws of defeat in the eyes of my 12 year old son. At least for this morning, he would not live with the pain and disappointment that I experienced when I was his age. And that is a very good thing.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a movie to watch.
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Replies
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OK- that made me cry too.
You are a good dad!0 -
Wow! I have to say I hate reading long blogs but this one...I had to know what happened. I am very proud of you for correcting the hurt. I bet that meant the world to Jake.
All our kids want is our time and sometimes we don't see that but from our experiences as kids we can help our kids be a little more happy. Hope you enjoyed the Lego movie just because you were watching it with him. 0 -
Love this story and that you shared it. Holding back the tears as I read it. Thank you.0
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You may have just produced a future Steven Spielberg! Good job Dad, and good work on the long walk.0
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Good save, Dad! 0
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Thanks for sharing this story. Smiling w/teary eyes, good job making sure your son knows you value him.0
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I am a long-time lurker and have (until now) never felt the urge to post on the boards until I saw this post.
Great job Dad! And well done on the walk too.0 -
Would somebody please pass the tissues? We seriously need a happy-tears smiley face for stories like this. You're a good man, sir!0
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Give to your children what your parents never or couldn't give to you. Very sweet story, sounds like you have a beautiful family.0
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I was inspired by just the story of the walk, but add the part about parenting in the real world, this story is phenomenal!!! Good for you on all fronts! By the way enjoy your conversational writing style!!! Keep up the good work!!0
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Cool! You ARE a good Dad.0
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Good save, and good job on the walk.0
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Good save, dad! Way to go! (on that AND on pushing yourself to walk a bit further)0
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Awesome. Well done.0
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Wow Scott, your posts usually touch me but this one hits home - HARD! I can relate to both 12 year old and 50ish Scott!
xoxoxo0 -
Awesome job. You deserve Dad MVP today!0
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Very nice. It is always my goal that my kids see the strain of parenting as little as possible. Whether your son remembers this, years from now, as a day you prioritized his interests, or forgets it soon because it is just one of many days you did right by him, you did a great thing today.0
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So very touching! Thanks for sharing. It make ya realize how important the little things are.0
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Sometimes the little things are indeed the big things. You did great! Your son is a lucky young man!!! 0
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I always love reading your posts. The content is always very enjoyable. Good job taking time to let you son know how important he is to you. There are times that our kids only want us to notice something they have done, and it creates a sense of self worth in them when they are acknowledged. Also great job on pushing yourself a little harder today.0
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There may be more typos in this post than many of my others. That is because as I sit here, I am typing through tears of sadness. And tears of joy. All because of something that happened to 12 year old me in 1973, and to my 12 year old son, Jake, this morning.
This morning, I was bound and determined to stretch my daily walk. It had been hovering in the 2.5 to 2.75 mile range (distance wise). This morning, I got on gmap-pedometer and plotted out a course that was exactly 3.001214 miles. Mrs. Third and I were headed into uncharted territory (distance wise, anyway).
Now, a three mile walk doesn't sound like all that to most of you. However, over recent days, I am lugging around 438 pounds in my walking shoes. I live where, in late-September, it is still 84 degrees and 70% humidity at 10 a.m. I am a previously sedentary, just recently a little active, 51 year old balding, crotchety old fart (hey, kid, get offa my lawn!). And I am challenged by a medical situation that makes things a bit more difficult, the specifics of which I choose not to share right now.
Anyway, Mrs. Third and I strapped on our fitbits, walking shoes, ipods, and such. One hour later, we had completed our pre-mapped 3.001214 mile route. She looked like she had enjoyed a good walk. I looked like I had just driven through a high pressure car wash with the windows rolled down.
I peeled off my underamour shirt (you know, the kind that is supposed to keep you cool and dry) and noticed that it felt about four pounds heavier than when we left. I removed my eyeglasses. I had to, because they were fogged up from sweat and humidity. And I sat down at the keyboard to record my exercise.
Now, if you've read my previous posts, you know that exercising in the heat and humidity of Texas Gulf Coast summer (which extends pretty much from May to October), especially to exertion, sometimes leaves me feeling moody and cranky. By the second or third 20 ounce glass of water and several minutes in cool, dry, air conditioning, I am usually back to my only mildly cranky and crotchety self (hey kid, do me a favor and try to avoid my lawn in the future. Thank you.).
Today was no exception. In fact, perhaps because it was extra special warm and humid, and we added about 20% more distance onto our usual walk, I was in rare form. Which was bad for my mood and about to be bad for my unsuspecting son, Jake.
As I sat down at the computer to catch my breath, remove my saturated shirt and fogged glasses, and come back to some sense of normal breathing, Jake bounded over with a heaping helping of Saturday morning Lego-fueled enthusiasm. You see, in the hour that Mrs. Third and I spent slogging through the neighborhood, Jake used a digital camera to make a short stop-action movie involving his most recent Lego creations.
"Hey Daddoo, want to see the movie that I made with my Legos while you were gone?"
Now, if a hot women had just said, "hey Third, wanna watch me do a striptease on your bed," as tired and exhausted as I was, I probably would have unenthusiatically responded, "sure, give me a few minutes and I'll be right over." But watch a stop action Lego movie? I can't think of anything that I wanted to do less at that exact moment.
"No. I just got back from exercising. I really don't, Jake."
I regretted the words the millisecond that they left my lips. I watched his shoulders slump a bit as he turned, walked away and said, "that's ok."
But it wasn't. And I knew it. I immediately flashed back to twelve year old Scott. 1973. My team was playing in the Edgemere Boys Athletic Club major league championship game. I had a chance to win the league MVP. Doing well in that game might give me the chance I needed to win the big trophy. In two years of youth baseball, my parents had never seen me play. We were poor. It seemed like my mom was always doing laundry, cleaning, cooking or whatever else was necessary for us to survive in a federally funded 3-bedroom apartment crammed with two parents and six children. It seemed like my father was alway coming off working the night shift setting type at the New York Times, trying to catch a few hours of sleep before heading off to his day job teaching graphic arts at a New York City junior high school. Watching one kid play baseball was a luxury they simply couldn't afford while trying to support and raise a family of six children, all with their own issues and needs.
But this was special. This was the championship game. I wanted them to see me play this one time.
"Could you come to my game today? It is the last game of the season."
"I'm sorry. There's just too much to do around here. And Saturday is your father's only day to catch up on his sleep. Go do well."
My response? The same one that I had just heard from MY 12 year old son, Jake. "That's ok."
But it wasn't. And I knew it. Like Doug Flutie with 6 seconds left against the University of Miami, I quickly scrambled in an effort for Jake not to experience the sadness and unimportance that I felt on that day in 1973.
"Hey Jake?"
He turned around. "Yeah Dad?"
"Mom and I walked a lot farther than we usually walk this morning. My shirt is totally soaked with sweat and I feel a little weak. I need a few glasses of water to get back to feeling better. Can you set the alarm on your iPod for one hour from now so that you absolutely do not forget to show me your movie? I don't want to take any chance that either of us will forget it."
"Sure Dad. That's great. Thanks."
I could tell from the broad smile on his face and the uplift in his shoulders that I had fixed what, seconds before, I had so badly broken. I turned away so that he could not see the tears streaming down my face.
I did not win the MVP trophy back in 1973. My 11 home runs, 44 runs batted in, and .464 batting average earned me second place in the MVP voting behind Mark Brodie and his .700+ batting average. But this morning, I snatched victory from the jaws of defeat in the eyes of my 12 year old son. At least for this morning, he would not live with the pain and disappointment that I experienced when I was his age. And that is a very good thing.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a movie to watch.
another awesome post by Scott - a few tears shed - but now you have to tell us about the movie!!0 -
Made me cry too... It looks like our sons share a love for lego and stop motion...i know he works hard on them and at times I know I dismiss him when I shold stop sit and listen.
Thank you so much for taking the time to write this and to share!! Learned a lesson from you today!! Many thanks0 -
Two Thumbs up for that story dad.0
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Amazing. Moving.. Your son is a lucky boy to have a dad like you.0
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Reading this i just realised what im doing to my son...
being 340lbs with a knee injury im not exactly one for outdoor activities... but my son loves it, he has a gokart that he loves to ride around and always asks me to "take him on an adventure" which means walking half a mile down the road to a park and watching him play
My response is always "not right now" and his is always "ok"
It takes a lot to bring tears to my eyes.
And you sir have done just this.0 -
David -
For the past four hours, I've struggled with how to respond to your note. All I can tell you is that children who have been raised with love and respect are generally very resilient and very forgiving. I hope that the message you took from my post is one of reconciliation, explanation and determination to make right what may have been wrong. Mostly, I hope and pray that you and your son share many wonderful, fun and loving experiences and make fantastic memories together from today forward.
Respectfully,
Scott R. in Houston, Tx.0 -
I'm glad I read this.
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Goodness, you know how to get a mom to cry. Wow, I am a mom to 5 children and I always fee guilty when I turn them away. I do however try to think more often okay that only takes a few extra minutes. Unfortunately, my husband is typically the more busy one for the kids. This was an eye opener for certain.0
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That was an awesome move of a great father How was the movie? 0
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good for you stopping history repeating itself 0
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