Game of Boners

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Spring Break

You know when you are about to buy the tickets to Denver for yourself and your two kids that they are not going to approve. Their 14 and 11 year old ideas of fun are not going to Parker to sit in your father's living room and watch an alternating mix of Fox News and Rockies' baseball. The 11 year old can be convinced that it won't hurt him, but the 14 year old is a slow poison, and he will convince his brother that visiting grandpa and granny for a week was one of the tortures that Dante encountered way down in the rings of hell (and you never felt this way; you liked going to your grandmother's house in Santa Barbara, but your home life was frequently shit and Grandma, despite the drinking and the occasional bad attitude, provided a refuge, not a torture). You don't understand the 14 year old and are beginning to suspect that he may not even be your child. Other people tell you that "they are all different", but you aren't prepared for how different. He is his mother, your first wife (the minors). You must work to like him, though it comes naturally to others and you feel bad for this. The second one is more "you", so you like him more, get him, empathize. You know every parent with more than one child must go through this, but it doesn't help. You know also that you're a big fucking baby. 14 is not sick. He's not a complete degenerate. He's a good boy, so you buy the tickets. The trip will be what it is.

Wife number 2 (the majors) takes you to the airport at 5 a.m. without complaint and you remember why you married her, why she is right and why you can envision an old age with her should you be so lucky. You reach the boarding area in plenty of time to wander around the terminal. You argue with the kids for 15 minutes about what kind of drinks to get for the flight. 14 wants whatever you think he shouldn't want--always. 11 is thankful for whatever he gets. You know this thought is untrue and you must fight it, actively. So you get some coffee, the boys get 24 ounces of sugar and you get on the plane. Frontier Airlines is a no frills operation. Their planes are newish, so you feel confident that the roof won't tear off during the flight. This reassures you. Plus, they have 24 channels of live television, so there's a fighting chance that 14 and 11, who are sitting on either side of you (you never place them together, ever), will not bug the living shit out of you for the next 2.5 hours inside the airborne tuna can. Tough shit, the TV costs $6 a seat and the only thing you are more of than annoyed with your children is cheap. So, no TV. Instead you read Sky Mall together and it's not so bad.

You hit the ground in Denver running, and this is not a metaphor. You walk faster than most living things and your children have learned to keep up. You call your father and let him know you have arrived and you know where he will be standing, because you have been back to see him 20 times in the last 10 years. You see him before he sees you and you think the same thought you did in September, "he's getting old." He sees you and the kids and he begins to cry. He hasn't seen the boys in a year and a half. He's not prepared to see a young man and a very large child. Then you start to cry (you're crying now writing this) because you realize that they are growing up while he grows down and it's a very fucking Lion King moment. You get to the car and you must wait a minute for Dad to have a "puff" outside while you sit in the car. You have forgotten, almost, that when you were the kids' age, everyone, Mom, Dad, aunts, uncles, grandparents all puffed inside the car with the window cracked just enough to ash out of it--the glory days. Your father leaves the parking lot and pays the attendant, pulling out his customary wad of cash, thumbing through what must be a thousand dollars to get the required $2 for the exit. He was a child of the Depression, so you understand.

You go by the Village Inn for breakfast on the way home and the kids are behaved because they are showing off for Grandpa. You eat a rare meal in peace, even though 11 is touching your feet with his the entire time. You wonder why you can't get past this, people touching your feet under the table, why, as your wife would say, you're "tactilly defensive" and you try not to say something to 11 because you don't want to be a whiner. You eat your "worse than Denny's" breakfast and suggest you go by Costco now, rather than later, to pick up the Pies (yes, multiple pies) for tonight's dinner. You get an apple and a cherry and you see your father pick up a chocolate cake, which you have to convince him, we shouldn't buy. He's diabetic and you know he uses your visits to cheat, to push his sugar limits, to live, so you try to understand; truthfully, you don't care. You don't spend any more time worrying about his health than he does. He has gifted you with a certain lack of concern about health and you are grateful.

You get home and go through the usual formalities, greeting the nearly housebound "Granny Wynn", your step-mother, who you have come to like after many years of not living with her, greeting "Buddy" the dog who gets more pampering than you or any of your brothers and sisters ever got (in fairness, he also doesn't give your father and Granny Wynn any shit, other than the predictable kind), rushing to throw your things down in your usual bedroom so you can put the 12 pack of beer you had to go to a liquor store to buy in the fridge. The placement of the beer is the first major problem for Granny. She likes things "thus and so" and your presence never makes her world easier. This used to bother you. Half-hour lectures on the proper way to load a dishwasher are burned into your childhood memory. Now you find yourself understanding what a houseful (5 when we were all there) of ungrateful children can do to your tolerance. You also know that you have just flown in from L.A. and putting beer in the fridge is your right. Dad and GW don't bug you anymore about the beer. You have established that you can handle the results of drinking in high altitude and you decide to resolve the issue, in part, by drinking as much as you can. Your wife's brother and sister in law, who have lived in Parker for 4 or 5 years are coming over for dinner with their kids and you want to be oiled by the time they get there.

Dinner is typical. You do the cooking, because, it would appear, your father has either lost his capacity to BBQ or, as you suspect, the will to do so. He has bought an entire rib roast and had it cut down to make rib eyes (an inch and half thick each), he also bought chicken breast for your sister-in-law and the girls who don't eat meat (what the fuck is chicken then?). You cook everything wrong on his shitty grill, not that it matters, because GW has forgotten to make the garlic bread, so the cooked meat sits on the counter for 20 minutes waiting. You eat and everyone is happy. After dinner, you watch Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland which you haven't seen and which is far less terrible than you have heard, though it's hard to see it through the plant and lamp that GW has cleverly placed between the couch and the TV. Your wife's family takes over the house as usual and you worry that your father has no place to sit while your brother-in-law reclines in Dad's chair, after having sat at the head of the table for dinner. And you know that he can't have been raised by wolves because you know his parents and are married to his decidedly polite sister. Night number two is a repeat of night number one with one exception. Your sister-in-law, who has a mildly controlling manner, wants to know the details of the Nuggets game you are going to. What section your sitting in, what price you paid for the tickets, would you mind if she and the family tagged along. You are to tell her if you find the idea objectionable. Just tell her if you don't want her to go. You don't say that. You say, in as half-hearted a way as possible, that you wouldn't mind if they came. She says she can't find tickets, but you worry that, this trip, you haven't been able to hide the fact that you may want some alone time with your father. On the way out, you all say you will see each other again on this trip, but everyone knows it's a lie.

Day three you go bowling. Your father worked at a bowling alley in a suburb on the other side of Denver and he wants to take you there. He reminds you that he had a 240 average when he was young and you prepare yourself for the lectures you will get about watching the arrows and not crossing your body. "Shake hands with the 10 pin, Timmy". You get there and the place has seen better days, but so have you. You get your lane and listen to the customary comparison of today's prices verses those of 1969. "Do you know what it cost to rent shoes back when we lived here? 25 cent" You begin to bowl and right away 11 is pouting. He gutters the first two balls and nearly crawls back to his chair, head down, scowling. Your father's turn comes up and he nearly goes over when he releases the ball, though he gets a strike. For a moment, Big Mike is back. His walk back to the chair says, "that's how you do it". He then advises each of us in turn before his next throw, during which he does tip over to the right, nearly hitting his head. You are thrown. Is this the man who picked you and your brother up when you were teenagers, one in each hand, off the floor, and threatened to put your head threw a goddamned wall? You feel bad, knowing this will shake his confidence. He nearly falls on every throw afterwords and you beat him both games--as hollow a victory as ever was. You wonder if any child has ever come to the point of beating his father in a sport and felt good about it. What a fucker that guy must be. You go home and watch Butler play the worst game a basketball in recorded history.

Day four is the Nuggets' game. You decide, at GW's behest, to go downtown three hours before game time to beat the traffic. Your father, who used to drive for a living and now can't figure out how to turn his signal off, how to fasten his seat belt, how to work the wiper blades, comments on how bad the traffic is because you have to slow down to 40. The boys can't control themselves and they assure him that it's not so bad. You tell him where to turn, where to park and, nearly, how to turn off the car. You wonder if he hates you for this, for the help, for knowing that he is slowing down, but you don't care anymore. You have decided you are going to be a witness and a friend to your father. It's why your here. You find an overpriced, crappy Mexican restaurant to eat at before the game. It's only 4 and nobody is hungry. 14 orders tortilla soup and 11 gets a steak quesadilla that he will only eat two bites of (the two root beers he drinks having filled him up). Your father can't understand the menu and orders the green chili, which is actually green chili soup. When he gets his food, you can tell he is surprised, or is it you? Are you imagining that he is getting old because you think you know everything? You finish your salad and your dad pays, leaving a $6 tip on a $45 tab, generous for him. On the way to the game, you miss your turn by one block, 14 indelicately explains that he just told you that and doesn't quite finish before you hit him in the face with a rolled up copy of the Onion you found in LoDo. He punches you in the arm and you pull him aside and cuss him up and down on the busy downtown street. In a way, it's a demonstration. You are saying, "look dad, I don't take any shit from my kids either." Though it's equally a bad reaction to 4 days of shit that only a 14 year old can dish out. You understand Greek tragedy, Shakespeare, Synge's Playboy of the Western World all those stories of the son and the father--you get it. You get into the game and take 11 down to the floor to try and get an autograph, knowing there is little chance of this. Grandpa and 14 go up, and up, and up to the seats and you imagine they talk about "the incident". You head up a half hour later and apologize. In twenty minutes it's more or less forgotten. You watch the game.

On the last day, GW is in a good mood. She has had some time to herself and is feeling better. It's the best day of your trip. The boys know they are going home, so they behave. You know you will get to see your wife and you're happy. You go to Bed Bath and Beyond with your dad to buy GW a new frying pan and some Salt and Pepper mills. Your dad takes your opinion on cooking ware and you pick out some nice stuff. He pays with a check, which takes him 5 minutes to write. You know he can't spell "beyond" and you see him looking around the store to find the word. He tries leaving the "pay to the order of" line blank, but the clerk asks him to fill it out. Finally, he sees it and writes the word. You know where you get your sense of spelling and you marvel that your father made it through 40 years of business. You are happy that you came and, over lunch, you announce your intention to come back at least twice of year, God willing and the creek don't rise. You don't do this only out of obligation, but because you believe it to be right. You explain that you are only three hours away and will come at the drop of a hat. You want to be there for him, for her too. You don't believe in God, but you believe in Jesus and Jim Casy, and this belief informs you.

The flight back is uneventful. You booked the last flight out hoping the three of you would get bumped--no such luck. You pay for the TV this time, though 11 falls asleep almost as soon as he starts watching the Laker game. 14 wants you to watch South Park with him and you consider it an honor to be included in his world. You watch his TV while 11 sleeps on your shoulder and you know at they will be gone soon, that you don't have many of these moments left and that you are getting old too. You hope you're doing right, pray that the world won't fucking blow up, and dream that one day, when you can't bowl, they will come to you with theirs.