legging it out

Sometimes I wonder what it is that The Ben loves more: baseball, basketball or football. His first experience with any of these three sports [both televised and in-person] has been baseball, and I feel I can be certain of his passion for this sport when considering his relaxed and leisurely approach to watching the game with me, as apposed to his usual fidgety insistence on either standing up or moving around. Last night we enjoyed the kick-off to the 2005 Monday Night Football season featuring our beloved [and habitually beleaguered] Chicago Bears kicking the tail out of the Dolphins in a preseason match-up of league bottom-dwellers. The Ben was surprisingly riled-up while watching the game and he absolutely refused to sleep until after the victory was sealed [around 10:30]. Now, basketball has escaped his attention to this point, being that there are no games on for another three months, but given his fondness for his Jumperoo and his jumbo-length feet, I can only assume he is anxiously awaiting the arrival of Midnight Madness and the preseason NIT. Momma probably reads all these signs envisioning a future in medicine or law or acting or art or science or some other sub-standard profession, but daddy knows what his boy is really thinking: how can I get my college tuition paid for, make boatloads of cash, and buy my parents a mansion on the hill with an Escalade parked out front?

Now, before anyone starts thinking I am going to turn into one of those parents who pushes their kids into sports they don’t necessarily want to play, remember that I don’t live on a Texas oilfield, my last name is not Woods, and I’m only kidding. Ben can play any sport he wants to, so long as it’s not soccer [unless he’s just conditioning for basketball] or chose not to play entirely, so long as doesn’t want to embark on a career in dance or male modeling. I’ll be just fine with his decisions and I’ll be ready to help him along whichever path he travels in life [except for soccer and male-modeling – his mother can help with that crap].

Ben, if you’re reading this someday and you’ve just come back home from a long, tiring afternoon on the soccer field, remember who is doing the writing here and what a true comedy of errors he has been thus far in your life, then get back out there and kick that ball around some more, until at last, after hours of seemingly endless running and kicking, you kick that black-and-white cushioned sphere towards the awaiting net, only to have it kicked away, and kicked again, and then run, and kick, and run, and kick. Then run (and kick) some more and kick, then run. Run run run, kick kick kick. Run.