Two Sons, One Father, and a Parallel Dynamic

After a long day that included hiking and canoeing in Zilker Park yesterday, we packed into the car and ate at Hut's on Sixth Street, where we filled up on heavy food -- burgers, fries, shakes. By the time we got home, both boys were asleep in the back of the car. Jackson woke up first, and he and I were able to have some one-on-one time, throwing the football and riding bikes.

Diego eventually emerged groggily from his nap and came outside to find me and Jackson tossing the ball to each other. "Here you go," I called, throwing a pass to Diego, who watched as the ball bounced in front of, and away from him, making zero attempt at a catch. He then yawned, rubbed his eye with his fist, and returned to the house.

I realized then that there is a parallel forming. I am spending time nurturing Jackson's unusual athletic talent and love of sports, just as my dad did with my younger brother. Much was made of the time and attention my father paid to Mike -- least of all by me. But my grandmother, my "Oma," had many talks with her younger son about the issue, explaining to him that it was important to spend an equal amount of time with the two growing boys. I never felt abandoned by my father. On the contrary, I was as excited about my brother's abilities as anyone, and I did what I could to nurture them, as well. I wanted to play my part.

For a while there my brother played the competitive tennis junior circuit, 12 and under. We would drive out to the Port Washington Tennis Center on Long Island, the place that spawned John McEnroe. Mike did well enough that he agreed to enroll in the Welby Van Horn Summer Tennis Academy in Connecticut. When he called home crying that he wanted to leave the camp, my father didn't think twice about going to get him. Thus ended his run for professional tennis stardom at age 12.

I do think, looking back on it now, that my father made a good effort to get me out there on the tennis court with him, as well. I enjoyed playing then, and I still do. I just never showed the same natural aptitude for the sport that Mike did. I've long since realized that it's not a question of my brother being a good athlete and me being a shitty one; it's actually comforting to realize that Mike has freakishly sharp hand-eye coordination, so next to him my skills in various sports have always felt low. Once I went out to play with others, however, I realized I was better than I thought. Mike was simply playing on another level.

I'm starting to think that Jackson may possess this kind of ability, too. He throws the football with stunning accuracy, when he takes the time to concentrate on what he's doing and where he's throwing. And he's got a strong arm for his age. I'll need to remember to give Diego that important equal time my Oma spoke about. Even though he may not be feeling a need for it right now, I think it will be important for me to do things like play video games with him. As I said, I hold no resentment towards my father or Mike; that said, it would have been nice for my father to sit down with me while I was drawing or reading, or whatever I was doing that didn't involve throwing a ball around. As much as I enjoyed throwing and catching and running and hitting, I also enjoyed other activities just as much or more.

What I'll try and do differently is to meet Diego on his own terms. If he wants to join me and Jackson for a catch, that's great. If not, then I'll find the time to take an interest in whatever it is that he finds interesting and exciting. As parents, this is our ultimate job, isn't it? To validate the passions that lie within the hearts of our children.

Rooting for Ray Lewis and All That It Means

If you're looking for an opinion piece trashing Ray Lewis, this isn't it. Yes, I've chosen familiar courtroom jumpsuit shots of both Lewis and another football star I've been thinking about of late, but be patient: You may be disappointed if you're ready to cheer, or vice versa.

Amid the Facebook chatter recently, one of my friends devoted her status update to her favorite remaining team in the NFL playoffs, stating, simply, "Ravens!!!!!" There were a vast variety responses, from both sides, but there was one in particular that started me thinking (and led me down the path back to 1994, and watching that crazy, slow-speed chase while the Knicks played in the NBA playoffs). The post read, "Let's see if the murderer can get himself another Super Bowl ring," or something to that effect.

I found myself remembering October 3, 1995, the day the long, drawn-out, sometimes dramatic ("If it doesn't fit you must acquit,") sometimes mundane ("Yes, I'm sure it was between 9 and 10 that I heard the dog barking, because I was watching 'L.A. Law,' which comes on at 9...") murder trial of O.J. Simpson finally came to a close. A large chunk of our small high school on Chambers Street had gathered around the TV monitors we kept on rolling carts with VCRs in the back of our shabby computer room. I'll never forget the response: Our predominantly white teaching staff let out a collective sound of disbelief, like a muddled "what," almost in unison. The students, and our one African-American teacher, cheered. They looked elated.

I think my reaction fell somewhere in between. The preponderance of evidence appeared to suggest that O.J. was guilty of brutally murdering his wife and her friend. But the justice system mandates a jury can only find you guilty if the evidence proves your guilt "beyond a shadow of a doubt." I reasoned that the defense had done their job by establishing doubt, and that the jury had done what the judge had instructed them to do. Yes, this was a tragedy, but like it or not, the man was not guilty.

I looked around the room and considered the emotions. For the white teachers, I wondered whether in Nicole Brown, they saw a sister, or a cousin, or a bit of themselves? And I imagined the relief and elation, as the rest of the viewers in the room, the black and Latino students and their one black teacher, thought, "Oh thank God. We are spared another of our men being subjected to the unending 'perp walks' that seem at times to be our collective pennance for some wrong we're not aware of ever having committed."

Of course, the details of Ray Lewis's case are much less dramatic. There's the Missing White Suit, and not much else. (Although some point to Lewis paying out a large settlement to one of the victim's children as an admission of guilt somehow.) Again, he was found not guilty.

I root for him because he is so exciting to watch on the football field. However, like many other professional athletes these days, Ray Lewis's Hero Status is in serious question.