First, may I say I LOVE THIS ASSIGNMENT! AND I AM NOT JUST SUCKING UP TO YOU FOR A GOOD GRADE, EITHER! The truth is, I'm thrilled to tell you about this son of mine.
I think I'll start off with a little story about him — a "telling anecdote" that reveals something about his character. Here goes.
Last week he went to visit his grandfather (whom he adores) in the hospital, the day after my son's sophomore football team lost to their dreaded across-town rival. Grandpa was in a hospital gown, laid up with a fancy new knee — the ultimate athletic trophy for an old war horse who has seen some game time himself over the years.
"Grandpa," my son said, "we lost."
The words were dust and ashes in his mouth because this son eats fire for breakfast. He plays focused. He plays hard. And he hates to lose the way a conservative hates Hillary Clinton or a liberal hates George Bush.
Grandpa took news of the loss calmly.
"And," my son added after a terrible pause, "it was my fault. I missed two tackles and both guys scored."
Which is another thing about my son. He never passes the buck. At least not when it really, really counts
Grandpa took this news calmly, too, because that's what Grandpa does. He takes news calmly.
"I can promise you one thing," Grandpa said finally after shifting on his bed. "It'll happen again."
And then grandson and grandfather roared out a laugh because, of course, both of them knew that whenever you play a game, you run the risk of not succeeding. And they also knew, of course, there will be more games. No matter how discouraged or disappointed my son might get, once he gives over his heart to something he never ever quits. Or backs down. Or gives up. Or says uncle. To borrow a line from an old Kathleen Turner flick, "relentlessness" is his special gift.
My son's a natural born fighter. He brawled his way into life between the births of two sons who came to us tiny and stillborn, so when this one was a baby, I could not stop holding him hard to my heart. I loved his fierceness and his fearlessness because I knew that somehow these were the qualities that had kept him breathing.
I will say this, though. He wasn't always easy. His legs NEVER stopped moving, and when you'd put him on the ground, he'd take off without looking back. I'm serious. My mom and I once lost him (oh, oops!) in New York City — at the Statue of Liberty — when he was 3 1/2, because literally he darted away from us into a sea of legs like a slippery minnow.
And there was the attitude thing he had going on. Once when he was 4, he stood on the front porch, silently surveying my garden like a tiny field general. Until he got bored — at which point he shouted "SHUT UP, FLOWERS!" Later, when he was in kindergarten, I got a call from the school saying there'd been a problem. My son was beating up sixth-graders with his backpack . . .
View CommentsSo, yeah, he was hard, sometimes, but he's always had this fatal magic. When he smiles, I'm dead. When he laughs, I'm dead, too. And when I see him working hard to do the right thing, which is most of the time these days, I am flat-out dazzled.
Intense. Fair. Loyal to the people he respects. Honest. Hard-nosed and sometimes hard. Outrageous. Courageous. Alive.
Mrs. Stensrud, it gives me enormous pleasure to introduce you to my boy.