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Jeff Stimpson, 39, has been a working journalist for 15 years. He lives in New York with his wife Jill and sons Alex, 3, and Edwin, four months. He maintains a site of essays, Jeff's Life, at:
http://www.jeffslife.com
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Monthly Column... |
by
Jeff Stimpson
Between the time Ned gets tired of screeching after his bath and submits to the indignity of being wiggled into a onesie, and the time he gets tired of screeching after the indignity of being placed in the crib to go to sleep, he and I play. Ned has varied tastes and many toys -- his current favorite toy is whatever Alex is playing with at that moment, for instance -- but he seems to key on two toys for playing with me: a big green plastic ball, and a set of stacking cups. The cups are cognitive stuff, and I know they're important, but they're nowhere near as crucial on the Potential Tickets For Dad meter.
"He's gonna be a ballplayer," our babysitter last night. I had visions of courtside playoff seats (...that's my boy out there...) when Jill put in: "Why's he have to play any sport at all?"
She likes opera.
Ned and I started playing with the ball a month ago. I would sit across the bedroom from Ned, slap the ball once or twice to get his attention, and roll it toward him. He'd lunge forward and stop the ball with a combination of his arms, his legs, his belly and his face. Had he missed, God knows what would have happened to his lip on the hardwood floor.
The ball is about one and a half times the size of Ned's head. He holds it up in front of himself by cradling it between his two fat, hooked forearms and his face. Sometimes he licks it, apparently unaware of most sports' rules about spitballs.
Throwing's a little tough. Most of the time he lets it roll lightly off his hands and arms; often, it bounces behind him and out of the room. He occasionally gets lucky with a roundhouse swing of the arm, however, clubbing the ball in my direction. (I tried him on smaller balls that he could grip better. He was doing the roundhouse stuff last night with one of those in his grasp, and a second later the ball went past my eyes at about 60 miles and hour, clearing my skull by an inch. No batter's gonna crowd Ned's plate!)
Ned has many athletic-type abilities that surprise me. Last night he Frankenstein-walked all the way to the dining room to fetch the green ball. Ned can't see a thing when he's carrying the ball. He especially can't see me slip my fingers under the ball, between his forearms, and tap the ball from his grip as I say, "Gimmetheball! Gimmetheball!" I pop the ball out and it bounces away. I do this over and over, and Ned always breaks into his giggle/chirp and lumbers away in pursuit.
Dad knocks the ball out of his hand, and he finds it cute! "Treasure this age," says Jill. "He loves everything you do."
One day, Ned will want to toss a ball or shoot a basket with dad for real. One day I'll try to knock the ball away, and Ned will hold on. He will furthermore expect dad --I'll be 52 or so then -- to actually sink the jumper, throw the hard spiral, and connect with his little boy's high fastball ("...kinda close, wasn't it, Ned!?..."), and it's going to be hard for Ned to explain to his friends why his dad is hobbling off the court, holding his hip.
Later, of course, Ned will vanish entirely into his community team, then high school team, then college team. On the day of the pro draft he'll phone from some remote hotel room. I'll hear music and girls in the background as he fills me in on his rookie contract, and, like all fathers throughout time whose sons have grown away from them, I'll hang up the phone and say to myself, That sounded like a great party!
And finally, one day, when Ned's team makes the playoffs, I'll call about my tickets. "Dad, I don't know," Ned will say. What do you mean? I'll demand. Who used to play ball with you when you were a baby? Who took the time to do that?
"The same guy who used to knock the ball away," he'll reply. "I have to go now. Mom and I have opera tickets."
(Jill read this essay. "It's confusing," she said. "I'm sorry, but it's confusing. And the girls in Ned's hotel room are obviously hookers." Figures she'd say this. Opera is filled with this kind of thing, except they call them "concubines." - JS)
Copyright 2001 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
J
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