A Shared Goal

I think a father’s job is to show his children all the options. Let’s go to a ballgame, play some hockey, try a little golf. I’ll take you to the art museum, the science museum and the zoo. We’ll go to the symphony and the ballet, the ocean, the mountains and the desert. A child can’t decide what sort of man he wants to be if he doesn’t know the choices.

At age 8, Raymond has mostly landed on hockey and soccer and he’s a little obsessed with the hockey. He insists on wearing No. 26 because that’s the uniform number Mark Arcobello wore when he played for the Oklahoma City Barons. He is Raymond’s idol because they once spent a few minutes chatting during a public skate after a game and Arcobello posed for a photo. If Raymond’s going to pick an athlete for a role model I want it to be a good one, so I checked him out. Arco passed; he played four years for Yale, which Raymond now plans to attend on a hockey scholarship. I’ll take it.

I attend nearly every game he plays, but when I miss one, we have a ritual in which I ask who won, whether he scored and if he had fun. He knows only the last question matters.

I am proud that Raymond maintains a good attitude. He moved up to an older age division recently and found it a lot more difficult to put the puck in the net. I expected a lot of whining because for the first time in months he played a game without scoring a single goal. I was surprised and delighted with his post-game commentary.

“Hey Dad!” he said excitedly. “Did you see? I almost scored four goals! One off the crossbar, two off the posts and one that was just a little wide!”

He was in bed that night, looking over some hockey cards and talking about his NHL career plan, and I started to worry that hockey was taking up too big a percentage of his world. Life is a buffet, but you only get to go through the line once, so I want him to load up that plate and sample as much as he can.

“Hey, buddy,” I said. “You know you don’t have to play hockey, right? Any time you get tired of it you can do something else instead. Whatever you want.”

And he said one of those things that only 8-year-old unabashed honesty can make you say.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know. But I’m good at it. And I just want to do something that makes you proud of me.”

I never wanted to disappoint my parents either. Even in middle age, my parents dead more than three decades ago, one of the greatest compliments I’ve received came from Shannon Warren. It was 2011, I had just received the Oklahoma Ethics Consortium’s Pilot Award, but the moment that stayed with me was when she whispered, “Your parents would be proud of you today.”

I am proud of Raymond all the time. He gets excellent grades. He’s a talented athlete. Plus he’s polite and well-mannered, at least in public. I tell him often that he’s a terrific kid and that I’m proud of him.

Last week I came home from my own hockey game, and I was delighted when Raymond asked me who won, whether I scored, and if I had fun.

Because here’s the secret, Raymond: I long for you to be proud of me, too.