Familyhood (5 page)

Knowing how fond my son is of playing with my phone, I ask him if he's seen it.

“Nope,” he says, as calmly as you please. (If it pleases you to be a stone-cold criminal.)

I take no chances.

“Are you sure? It's okay if you did, I just need to have it back now.”

“No, Dad, I didn't even see it. Do you remember where you last saw it?”

I look at him funny. But not
funny
like “I'm being funny.” Funny like “I don't think this is funny.” More like “Isn't it funny how I don't think you're telling me the truth?”

“Seriously,” I continue, “you didn't play with it? Or move it? Maybe by accident?”

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Yup, I'm sure.”

Okay—I have to trust him at some point. I mean, he
is
my son, after all. A mere child.

I ask my wife, who, I happen to remember, did use my phone to take a picture a half hour earlier. (Even though she has the same phone, which was no more than twenty feet away. Why couldn't she just use
her
phone? But I digress. And reveal my pettiness. But only because I want you to get the whole picture.)

“I
did
use it,” she allows, a little irked by my Columbo-like fact-gathering. “And then I put it back.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure,” my beloved hisses. “Geez—I didn't know your phone was so precious, to be touched by only your hands. I'll make sure I never use it again, okay?”

I can tell when someone is being facetious. I'm very clever. I calmly try to explain that no, it's not that it's
precious
, it's just that “I need it, and I can't find it, I happened to have seen that you used it last, and—”

“I
said
I put it back. But, if you'd like, I will be happy to help you look for it.”

“No,” I counter, “I don't need you to help me look for it . . . I just—”

Now my son (the criminal) is getting uncomfortable with the escalating tension between his parents. Understandably—given that he was, almost without question, once again the culprit. Courageously, he steps into the thick of it.

“You want me to help you look for it, Papa?”

Okay, now I
know
something's up because, as nice a kid as my little guy is, he's not the volunteering type. So I ask him again.

“Okay—last time I'm going to ask you. You didn't happen to use my phone, right?”

“No, I didn't. I can't believe you don't believe me!”

He says it with such hurt, such raw emotion, that now I feel badly.

“Sorry, buddy . . . I'm just . . . just a little frustrated.”

Of course, what I can't share with him is that the only reason I'm the teeniest bit skeptical is that I know about the whole Dented Car Door and the ensuing cover-up. But since that evidence isn't admissible in this court, I have no choice but to ignore it and give him the benefit of the doubt.

So now I have another mystery. If he didn't take it (which, the more I think about it, he probably
didn't,
because that would make him borderline sociopathic, given the recent series of events) and my wife didn't take it (which I'm sure she didn't, because she
told
me she didn't), then there remain two possibilities: I must have picked up the phone and put it somewhere, and just don't remember (which is possible but unlikely). Or
something magical
happened. It evaporated. Spirits from beyond absconded with it . . . To remind me to spend less time on the phone and more time talking to my family. Who knows?

And why can't that be the case? I ask you. Who says it has to be my son's fault? Seriously. Think of all the things that ever were that now are not. My kid couldn't have hidden
all
of them, could he? Of course not. So clearly there are other forces at play. There are things that are just unknowable. Which is fine; I'd just like to know
which
unknowable thing it was that happened.

As fate would have it, the phone rings (the land line—not my cell phone). It's my son's friend, who happened to have been over at our house a few hours earlier, playing with my son (the accused).

Taking a stab in the dark—for this is how desperate I am—I ask him, “Hey, buddy, you didn't happen to see my cell phone when you were here, did you?”

“Oh yeah, sure,” he says. “We were playing with it. It's upstairs.”

Turns out my son—at this point our only “person of significant interest” in the case—in fact
absolutely
took it and played with it and stashed it in his chest of drawers for the express purpose of deceiving me, and has been aggressively (and successfully) lying about it for the last several hours.

So now my mind is swirling. More than anything, I want to know the evolution of this caper. Did he swipe it, thinking it would be funny to watch me look for it? I get that—I did that when I was a kid.
Or
did he borrow it and then forget to put it back, and then panic when I started looking for it? Or is he maybe trying to slowly drive me insane, “gaslight” me like what's-his-name did to that actress in that movie? Wait—did my son ever see that movie? With who? And why? He usually doesn't like old movies. My mind is racing out of control.

I gather my thoughts long enough to thank the little cooperative witness friend, and with unabashed glee I sprint to my son to confront him with this new information.

His response? Big smile. “I can't believe he ratted me out! The fink!”

The
fink,
he says. I have somehow raised James Cagney. A Bowery Boy. A pint-sized thug who lives by the code of the street—despite a cushy childhood in Beverly Hills that is nowhere near an actual “street.” I sit him down and calmly, but in no uncertain terms, explain to him that this was not cool.

He acknowledges he “thought it would be funny.”

“Okay. And was it?”

“Not really. Well . . . a little. In the beginning.”

(Which, if you know history, is how most wars start. “We thought it would be kind of funny. Taking that little corner of your country and calling it
ours
. Sorry.”) I press on.

“And how about when I was walking around the house for half an hour, and I asked you to be honest and you weren't?”

“Well . . .”

“And then, I thought Mommy took it and accused her, and she got upset . . .”

“No, then it wasn't so funny.”

“Right. But you
still
didn't tell me. You could have told me then, right?”

His face starts to show emotion for the first time.

“I was scared,” he acknowledges.

“Of what?”

“I didn't know what you were going to do.”

Among the many things I felt at the moment was
oddly tickled
that he still even had the capacity to worry about what his father thinks. I thought he had moved past that.

“Okay,” I say. “Well, what did you
think
I was going to do?”

He shrugs. “I don't know.”

“Okay—well here's the rule now,” I say, deciding it's time to be more clear, more firm. “You are not to take my phone without asking me first. And if I ever
do
, sometime in the future, give you permission to use it, you have to put it back where you found it when you're done. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

And he looks like he feels really bad.

Which makes me feel good, which in turn makes me feel terrible. I kneel down so we are eye to eye again.

“Look,” I say. “I know that was hard to admit, and I'm really proud of you for telling me the truth.” (Never mind that it was only after I cornered him with unbeatable evidence; he still came clean. That's got to count for something.)

“That's not always easy, ” I acknowledge, “but honesty is always the best way to go in the end, isn't it?”

“Yeah.” He mumbles, still looking down, wishing this was over.

“Okay?” I ask.

“Okay,” he answers, looking up and mustering a little relieved smile.

We hug, and he heads out. My work in this town is done.

He's not two steps away, ready to enjoy his freedom, when my little guy turns back and, in the most casual voice possible, tosses out, “Oh, and you remember that thing with the car door?”

I pretend I don't. It's been so long I almost
did
forget, but beyond that, I had committed to the lie of not knowing.

“What car door?” I ask—another horrible acting performance.

“You don't remember?” he says. “The little dent on your door you were upset about, and you didn't know how it happened . . . ?”

“Oh yes, yes, of course. Yeah, that was weird. What about it?”

“
I
did that.”

“
You
did that?” I say, conveying what I think is just the right balance of
disappointment
tempered with a sense of “I must have heard wrong.”

“By accident,” he says. “I'm really sorry.”

Very sincere, very honest. All I wanted from the beginning. I take him in another big hug, and thank him for his honesty. And remind him that coming clean is never easy—and that I am really proud of him.

I then ask him—only half-joking—if there was anything else I should know, as long as the gates are open and the judge is in a forgiving mood.

“No,” he chuckles. “That's everything.”

He is happy. And relieved. And I am happy. Feeling very complete. Glad that—at least as far as my young son is concerned—all acts of thuggery and mayhem are accounted for.

THE NEXT MORNING,
he mentions he
might
be responsible for the sinking of a Japanese fishing vessel off North Korea a few months back. His mother claims to know nothing about it.

Congratulations

I
was watching
a basketball game with my kids. Lakers against somebody.

Now, watching by myself I might pay attention, I might not. But with my kids there, I'm more alert; I like to see what they know, what they take in, and to a ridiculous degree, I'm always on the lookout for any “teachable moments” that may present themselves. Any windows for discussion that I can use to broaden my children's horizons, and in so doing, transform a perfectly nice, relaxing activity into a source of tedium and displeasure for them. (It's just who I am.)

So we're watching the game. A guy gets fouled, goes to the line to shoot two free throws, the first of which he misses. By a lot. A remarkably ugly brick of a shot. And, as has become the custom in professional basketball, his teammates immediately congratulate him. Vigorously. Each of the other four guys on the floor leans across their opponents to cascade their pal—who just missed the easiest shot there is in the sport—in a sea of knuckle bumps, butt pats, shoulder slaps, and heartfelt encouragement. This always strikes me as wrong.

“You see that?” I ask the boys.

“What?”

“
That
. Guy misses, but everyone congratulates him anyway.”

“Hmm,” says my little guy, barely looking up from his Game Boy. (I had a feeling he wasn't really watching the game.)

I press on undeterred.

“It's kinda funny, though—don't you think? They ‘high five' him whether he hits it or misses.”

“It's nice,” says my older boy, always quick to identify the niceties of the world. “They're making him feel better.”

“Yeah—it's good sportsmanship,” his little brother chimes in, happy to take up any side of an argument that's contrary to whatever point his father is trying to make.

“You know, I guess it is,” I concede.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.

“But do you notice,” I persist, “that two seconds later they're all shoving and elbowing and trash-talking? So I'm not sure if it's really good sportsmanship or—”

“Shhh—we're watching,” they announce in unison.

I'm amused by their unified front and alleged commitment to the game, which I happen to know neither of them cares about. One is watching only because the Laker Girls come out every so often and jump around in very tight shorts, and the other one is watching because even if it's not what he wants to watch, it's still TV, which is better than doing homework.

A few minutes later—same thing. Another guy goes to the foul line, shoots, and misses. Same thing happens; his teammates are all over him. Fist bumps, chest thumps . . . One guy who was already halfway down the court trots all the way over to offer his condolences and earnest words of support.

You can never quite hear what they're saying, but I imagine it's like the relatives on
Family Feud
when one of their elected loved ones blurts out the dumbest answer ever.

“Name something you might find in your wallet.”

“Um . . . a parakeet?”

And they all start clapping and yelling. “Good answer! Way to go! I was going to say ‘parakeet' myself. Woooo!”

I maintain that despite the seemingly sincere enthusiasm, somewhere deep inside they've got to be thinking, “A
parakeet
? Are you
kidding
me?! How could there be a parakeet in your wallet!?”

But so great is our need to whoop and holler—or deny that someone just stunk up the joint—that we applaud everything, however undeserving.

As I sit there with my boys, I try to figure out exactly why this national propensity to over
-
celebrate bothers me and—as far as I can tell—no one else.

I'm certainly all for celebrating and positive reinforcement. Ask my boys; they'll probably tell you I do it
too much
. (“Great handwriting there, buddy. I really like that capital
S
.”)

As far as
sports
go, I would say I'm not only
pro-cheering
, I'm
anti-booing
. In kids' sports, obviously, but even at the professional level. I've told my boys I don't ever want to see them boo anyone for missing a shot, striking out, slipping on the ice and getting his head stuck in the net—any public failure. My guess is the guy already feels bad enough, and public derision probably isn't going to help him do better next time anyway.

Only under certain circumstances would I condone booing. In response to an egregious display of
un
sportsmanlike conduct, I could see it. Throwing a bat at an opposing player. Kicking over a pommel horse because you muffed the dismount. Or, upon losing a match at Wimbledon, shoving a racket up the ass of a linesman. These are uncalled for, and deserve some solid booing.

Otherwise, I say celebrate; I'm just saying celebrate within reason. And with appropriate
cause
. Celebrate greatness, not mediocrity. Don't stop the action to commemorate routine achievement. If an insurance salesman has a great month, you might give him a plaque or take him to lunch, maybe even give him a bonus. But you wouldn't chest thump the guy every time he hangs up the phone, would you? No, because he's just doing his job. The man is working. Let's let these people do their jobs.

Equally counterproductive, to my way of thinking, is the now-accepted practice of interviewing players mid-game, mid-huddle, mid-the-very-thing-they're-there-to-do.

“Kobe, what are you thinking—down by four with three seconds on the clock? What's going through your mind right now?”

“What's going through my mind? Mainly, ‘Man, I wish this guy wouldn't talk to me right now because I have to focus so I can
make
the shot and then we can maybe talk about it
after
the game.' How would that be, Sparky? Would you mind not talking to me right now? I'm
working
!”

AS I SAY,
I seem to be the only one bothered by these accepted practices. And to be honest, I don't like feeling this way. I start to sound like the cranky Old Guy who sits in the corners at parties and lectures about how much better the world was in
his
day. (“You know, back then we didn't
have
parties. And we were better off for it too!” )

And maybe my kids are right; maybe there's nothing wrong with celebrating
everything
.

I resolve to change my ways. I decide to be more like everyone else, and less like myself.

FEW DAYS LATER,
I'm out having a catch with my boys. One of them throws the ball a bit high. And by a “bit” I mean “barely missed that hawk overhead.”

A conventional dad might do a little coaching here. Maybe suggest he release the ball a little later. And also, maybe
face me
when he does it. Not me. Instead I use what I've learned from the NBA players, the positive reinforcement my boys so ferociously defended.

“Nice throw, son! I'm proud of you. Whooo-hoo! Atta boy! Yeahhhhhhhh!”

I go to give him a pat on the back and a knuckle bump. He stares at me.

“Forget it,” he says, and heads off, steamed.

Apparently, he thought I was being sarcastic.