In his youth, my father was quite the athlete. Now in his fifties, he's converted my former bedroom into a weight room (much to the dismay of my mother). He drinks his coffee black, his scotch straight, likes his singer-songwriters male, and refuses to wear the color yellow.
In other words, he is a man's man.
As a child, one of the ways that this girly girl could connect with him was through athletics. Growing up in a small backwards town where the grand opening of a new Taco Bell nearly started a riot, I was always looking for new things to do. Consequently, at some point in time I can claim to have dabbled in track, pottery, dance, the flute, swimming, softball, photography, basketball, community theater, gymnastics, the piano, cheerleading, volleyball, choir, and soccer. In athletics as well as in life my father was often my coach, and he didn't take weakness lightly. In fact, one of his favorite pieces of advice to me has always been, "walk it off, M-."
And although I've always loved him very much, I hated when he said that to me.
The first time I can recall the phrase was when I was eight years old and in the middle of a soccer match. I despised soccer. I signed up on the co-ed league expecting that it be just that - co-ed. Not so. At the beginning of the season, there were only three other girls in the entire league, and after the first week the three had dwindled down to one - me. I'd like to think that I was totally badass at the sport and delighted in awing all the boys with my mad skillz but, alas, no. I was eight and scared and wanted desperately to quit. Consequently, I was often exaggerating my injuries, hoping my parents would see that I was far too delicate of a flower to be running around with all these horrible, brutish boys. But since we didn't see eye-to-eye on that, I set out to prove just how dangerous soccer was. It was near the end of the season and I had just taken a ball to the stomach. It didn't hurt, but oh how I played it up. And while I had managed to fool my coach, the umpire, most of the onlookers, and all of my teammates, my father, well versed in my tantrums, could not be fooled.
"Walk it off!!!" he advised me, and pouting, I turned around and headed back to the field.
Minutes later I took a pretty fiercely kicked ball to the face, and although this time my vision was blurred and my brain was dazed I had learned my lesson. I didn't cry and I didn't threaten to quit. Instead, I (taking a very crooked path) walked it off.
Perhaps that's why, as an adult, I am loathe to quit anything and I rarely cry. Perhaps it's also why, when I discover one of my teenage students crying in the hallway over some boy, the best advice I can muster is, "Walk it off, honey."
Oh, I am my father's daughter.
In other words, he is a man's man.
As a child, one of the ways that this girly girl could connect with him was through athletics. Growing up in a small backwards town where the grand opening of a new Taco Bell nearly started a riot, I was always looking for new things to do. Consequently, at some point in time I can claim to have dabbled in track, pottery, dance, the flute, swimming, softball, photography, basketball, community theater, gymnastics, the piano, cheerleading, volleyball, choir, and soccer. In athletics as well as in life my father was often my coach, and he didn't take weakness lightly. In fact, one of his favorite pieces of advice to me has always been, "walk it off, M-."
And although I've always loved him very much, I hated when he said that to me.
The first time I can recall the phrase was when I was eight years old and in the middle of a soccer match. I despised soccer. I signed up on the co-ed league expecting that it be just that - co-ed. Not so. At the beginning of the season, there were only three other girls in the entire league, and after the first week the three had dwindled down to one - me. I'd like to think that I was totally badass at the sport and delighted in awing all the boys with my mad skillz but, alas, no. I was eight and scared and wanted desperately to quit. Consequently, I was often exaggerating my injuries, hoping my parents would see that I was far too delicate of a flower to be running around with all these horrible, brutish boys. But since we didn't see eye-to-eye on that, I set out to prove just how dangerous soccer was. It was near the end of the season and I had just taken a ball to the stomach. It didn't hurt, but oh how I played it up. And while I had managed to fool my coach, the umpire, most of the onlookers, and all of my teammates, my father, well versed in my tantrums, could not be fooled.
"Walk it off!!!" he advised me, and pouting, I turned around and headed back to the field.
Minutes later I took a pretty fiercely kicked ball to the face, and although this time my vision was blurred and my brain was dazed I had learned my lesson. I didn't cry and I didn't threaten to quit. Instead, I (taking a very crooked path) walked it off.
Perhaps that's why, as an adult, I am loathe to quit anything and I rarely cry. Perhaps it's also why, when I discover one of my teenage students crying in the hallway over some boy, the best advice I can muster is, "Walk it off, honey."
Oh, I am my father's daughter.
Labels: dear old dad, futbol, tantrums
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