The Power of Redemption

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.

OK- that made me cry too.

You are a good dad!