Love-one

Scott Warnock,

I am not the Great Santini. I wasn’t a hard-ass dad who was going to teach my kids lessons by beating up on them and abusing them in preparation for the cruel world, the real world.

But, still, I never let ’em win. I’m too competitive for that. Even at stupid strategy-less CandyLand (if you haven’t played it lately and have fond memories, take a stab at it now: mind-numbingly terrible). Our competitive interactions were always authentic: I wanted them to know Dad was always trying his best.

This has led to triumphant moments with all my kids, and I think of a few special ones with my middle son, Nate: That glorious day he finally quick-hands bested me in rod hockey; the hilarious moment in cribbage when he inevitably had the win and was so excited his shaking hand could barely place the final peg.

This is my perspective, so maybe it’s an argument with such gaping flaws that Laius could drive a semi through it, but I believe we hit a good balance.

Tennis players know a big life moment is when a kid wins a set from you for the first time. It’s a rite of passage. My kids have memories of us going out on the court, and I’d practice my serve while they tried to return one. I’m not exactly Goran Ivaniševic, but I had some pace, and anyone who returned one got an ice cream cone. This too led to a very funny moment when Zachary, just a little guy, swung wildly—and hit a perfect return winner.

The boys both played high school tennis. They were certainly soccer players playing tennis, but being athletic and quick, they were solid. We can all play serviceable tennis, and sometimes we’ll go out and hit.

This has been a good year and a half of tennis for me. Thanks to the urging of my friend Lou, when I’m not injured, I’m playing regularly. My game might even be sharpening up a bit! During a break from his soccer leagues, Nate and I went out one evening this summer. He hadn’t played, and I expected to play my game and dust him.

It wasn’t so. I got in an early hole and never recovered. He ran everything down and returned it, and I couldn’t generate enough confidence and pace to drive winners by him. His serve isn’t wicked, but it’s consistent, and I hit a maddening number of backhands into the net. As the set proceeded, my frustration grew, and I fell into the changeover brooding that tennis can bring out.

He won 7-5.

We were later talking about it with the family, and he reported the results but surprisingly said, “But Dad wasn’t trying his hardest.” I was flummoxed. “Son,” I said, “have you ever seen me let anyone win at anything?”

What did it all mean? I thought of the build-up to this moment. I wanted him to know that I’m a competitor, but it was his time. It would be untrue to tie a tidy bow here and saw how much I brimmed with pride seeing my son across the net taking a set from me (I mean, I was hoping he’d hit some double faults…). I still—I haven’t found a way to help myself—feel the sting of losing.

But now, with some distance because I’m reflecting about it here, I feel this is of course where it must end up. Their life will be full of competitions with people much better than me, but I suppose I hope that through our competitions, they will have evolved, surpassed. I want them to be better than me—and to know it.

Love-One.

 

Scott Warnock

Scott Warnock is a writer and teacher who lives in South Jersey. He is a professor of English at Drexel University, where he is also the Associate Dean of Undergraduate Education in the College of Arts and Sciences. Father of three and husband of one, Scott is president of a local high school education foundation and spent many years coaching youth sports.
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