by Adam Park
I was driving my only son (he has three sisters) to his first day of high school. He was 14, demoted from the top of the totem pole in middle school to the bottom of the pole in high school. He seemed nervous, as anyone would be when entering a new phase of life. He was quiet..
In our culture, it’s safe to say that dudes don’t talk much. My son and I communicate better than that stereotype, but there’s still some truth to it. Every now and then, we sneak off to what we call “Dude Island”—not a place, but a state of mind. We watch sports, play video games, or hit some golf balls. Away from the rest of the family, whom we loved, but… weren’t male. That was enough. That was nice. That was Dude Island.
As we neared the school, he broke the comfortable silence.
“Dad. At my graduation party. You and me. MMA style. In the backyard.”
I remembered the first time I beat my dad in a footrace. I was in eighth grade and had already passed him in height. Even so, I was shocked. From that moment on, I saw him a little differently. He was no longer invincible.
I smiled and agreed to the duel—scheduled four years into the future. Then I kissed him on the forehead and sent him off to school.
This kind of machismo was uncharacteristic for both of us (my high school nickname was literally “Peace”), but I was raised by a social worker with a Ph.D. in gender roles, so I felt like I understood what was behind his challenge. And I was okay with it.
In fact, I loved it.
He was looking ahead, imagining a bigger, stronger version of himself. I’m a relatively big guy, and he knew he couldn’t match me at 14. But he could see a future where he might.
Almost four years have passed, and neither of us has forgotten. Once, on a road trip to a tournament somewhere along the Ohio Turnpike, he reminded me of our agreement. I looked at the athlete beside me and realized he was in his ‘season of rising sap’, while I was inevitably on the decline.
After a moment of introspection I told him, “I’d be disappointed in you if I beat you, and I’d be disappointed in myself if I didn’t at least put up a good show.”
This spring, my son will graduate from high school. He’s the captain of his team, an honor roll student, a volunteer at both the hospital and a preschool, and he wants to be a doctor.
He’s an amazing kid. Better than I was at his age. Hell, better than I am now.
I sometimes question some of my own choices. I notice the extra weight. I feel the years.
But I’m okay that he’s better than me.
In fact, I relish it.
Isn’t that the goal? To raise people who surpass us? To leave things better than we found them? The campsite rule, applied to life.
Our match is in a few weeks. Wish me luck. I hope I don’t throw out my back. I hope I put on a good show.
And if I lose, I know it will be to a worthy opponent.
