JB Say What?

I realize that it is not for me to say, but I think I’ve done a pretty good job as a parent. More often than not, my children were given food and shelter, and when their services weren’t required at home, they were allowed to attend school. But the truest test is that I can proudly claim that most of my children are reasonably well-adjusted given their genetic background, and only a few them have any felony convictions. But apparently that is not enough for these ungrateful wretches. They have recently voiced their disappointment in me in no uncertain terms.

My crime? I went to bed in mid-third quarter of game 4 of the recent Celtics vs. Lakers Finals. At the time (which was around 11:00 PM), the Celtics, who were leading the series 2-1, were 18 points behind the Lakers. I have seen and played in many basketball games throughout my life, and calling on this extensive experience—and given the fact that the Celtics were showing no signs that they were going to close the gap—I realized that it was going to be foolhardy to make it another late night when work beckoned in a few hours.

Funny thing. I was wrong. The Celtics staged an historic comeback and won the game. I can’t say that I was exceptionally proud of myself for bailing when I did, and I truly regretted not seeing the whole game. My remorse, however, was nothing compared to the abuse heaped upon me by my children. One went so far as disowning me (incidentally, its the child who no longer requires tuition bills to be paid). It got so bad that during the clinching game 6 of the series, with Boston leading by 30 points, I received simultaneous text messages warning me not to go to bed. One of these ingrates had the nerve to call after the final buzzer just to make sure I was awake.

I am not someone to take challenges to my sports credibility lightly. I won’t go into historic details, but suffice it so say that if I had spent even a fraction of the time that I devoted to playing and watching sports during my early years to my studies, I would have been smart enough to raise children that worship me like a god. Instead, I’ve raised a passel of nasty guttersnipes. But I digress. I decided in order to restore my authority as a lover of sports, drastic measures were necessary. It turns out that the impending surgery of one of golfing buddies provided the opportunity for redemption. Because he was not going to be able to golf for the next six weeks, we decided to get in six weeks of golf in a weekend. We therefore planned to play 36 holes on Saturday, and I would join him for the final 18 of 36 on Sunday.

Saturday started well, and I shot about my average for the first 18 holes. We traveled to the next course, had some lunch, and arrived ready to go for the second 18. I hit my first drive right down the fairway. My second shot was a little off, and I ended up with a easy bunker shot. I won’t bother you with the details, but it took another 6 shots to get my ball in the hole. Sad to say, that may have been the highlight of the round, as I shot the worst score for 18 holes that I have had in over 15 years.

In reconstructing the debacle, I realized that I wasn’t physically tired. There were no aches or pains. And I had played 36 holes in a day many times before with no discernible difference between the first and last hole. But it is now obvious that I no longer have the mental capacity to concentrate for that length of time on golf. Usually, I can reconstruct how I butchered each hole after the round. Not this time (come to think of that may the only blessing that came from this horror show).

I don’t know what is worse: the fact that I’m obviously no longer the sportsman that I thought I was or that the kids were right.

Posted by Glenn on Tuesday, June 24th, 2008 at 1:55 pm.