For my father, who:
- taught me how to hit a baseball (“Don’t chop wood!” he’d exclaim; my tendency was to pound the ball down into the ground. I am reminded of baseball lessons with Dad every time Keith Hernandez remarks on a hitter’s “nice level swing” during Mets broadcasts),
- couldn’t teach me how to catch fly balls (I’d always run in too far and the dang thing would sail over my head; I did turn out to be a pretty decent second baseman, though),
- taught me how to shoot a layup (wish he had forced me to learn how to use my left hand),
- taught me how to shoot free throws (better than Shaq!),
- taught me how to punt, pass, and kick a football,
- slaved over helping me learn New Math,
- taught me algebra (“Where did the numbers go? What are those letters doing in the problems?”),
- taught me how to do word problems (The trick is to draw a picture to illustrate the problem. And if it says “of” you’re supposed to multiply. I’m not sure why, but that’s what Dad said to do and it always worked!),
- along with Mom, taught me how to drive,
- never won us any cool prizes at the carnival, but it didn’t matter because he did the stuff that really counted.
I like the cross-cultural-ness of these two videos. The parent-child relationship knows no border.
Lyrics: Peter Gabriel’s The Book of Love and Father, Son.
