Fatherhood

When he was 10, he used to lay under the covers with his dad in the pitch darkness, shivering from the air conditioning and eating Wise potato chips.  They listened to Phil Rizzuto and Bill White call the Yankee game on the radio.  The hum of the air conditioner, the crunch of the chips, the wit of “The Scooter “and the warmth of his dad:  it was perfect.  His father would talk to him like he was a grown up, discussing strategy and breaking down the game.  He never made it past the 7th inning before falling asleep in the crook of his dad’s arm.  He always woke up in his own bed in the morning, smelling of potato chips and dreaming of 6-4-3 double plays.  He always thought that was Fatherhood.

Now his own son is 10, they lay under the covers in the pitch darkness, shivering from the air conditioning and eating bacon.  They sing silly songs and script Lightning McQueen to each other and giggle. The hum of air conditioner, the crunch of the bacon, the wit of McQueen and the warmth of his son:  it is perfect.  He talks to his son with acceptance and understanding, discussing the plan for the following day and beyond.  His son wakes up smelling of bacon and dreaming of trampolines.  He now knows Fatherhood.