Today's Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Wake-Up Call

I was sitting in a bathtub full of moldy sheetrock when my

13-year-old son asked the question. " Can you take me golfing

sometime? " he said.

I had a bathroom to remodel. It was fall, and the forecast

for the next week was for a 100 percent chance of Oregon's

liquid sunshine. I wanted to say no. " Sure, " I said. " What did

you have in mind? "

" Well, maybe you could, like, pick up and me after

school on Friday and take us out to Oakway. "

" Sounds good. "

Friday came. The showers continued. Looking out the window,

moldy sheetrock seemed the saner choice. But at the appointed

hour, I changed from home-improvement garb to rain-protection

garb and loaded the boys' clubs and mine in the back of the car.

In front of the school, and piled in. looked at

me with a perplexed expression.

" What's with the golf hat, Dad? " he said.

It was, I thought, a silly question, like asking a scuba

diver what's with the swim fins.

" Well, I thought we were going to play some golf. "

A peculiar pause ensued, like a phone line temporarily gone

dead.

" Uh, you're going, too? " he asked.

Suddenly, it struck me like a three-iron to my gut: I

hadn't been invited.

Thirteen years of parenting flashed before my eyes. The

birth. The diapers. The late-night feedings. Helping with

homework. Building forts. Fixing bikes. Going to games. Going

camping. Going everywhere together - my son and I.

Now I hadn't been invited. This was it. This was the end of

our relationship as I had always known it. This was " Adios, Old

Man, thanks for the memories but I'm old enough to swing my own

clubs now so go back to your rocking chair and crossword puzzles

and - oh yeah - here's a half-off coupon for your next bottle of

Geritol. "

All these memories sped by in about two seconds, leaving me

about three seconds to respond before would get suspicious

and think I had actually expected to be playing golf with him

and his friend.

I had to say something. I wanted to say this: 'How could

you do this to me? Throw me overboard like unused crab bait?' We

had always been a team. But this was abandonment. Adult abuse.

This was turning to in 1805 and saying: " Later,

Bill. I can make it the rest of the way to Oregon without you. "

Glenn radioing Mission Control to say thanks, but he could

take it from here. Simon bailing out on Garfunkel during " Bridge

Over Troubled Water. "

Why did it all have to change?

Enough of this mind-wandering. I needed to level with him.

I needed to express how hurt I was. Share my gut-level feelings.

Muster all the courage I could find, bite the bullet, and spill

my soul.

So I said, " Me? Play? Naw. You know I'm up to my ears in

the remodel project. "

We drove on in silence for a few moments. " So, how are you

planning to pay for this? " I asked, my wounded ego reaching for

the dagger.

" Uh, could you loan me seven dollars? "

Oh, I get it. He doesn't want me, but he'll gladly take my

money.

" No problem, " I said.

I dropped him and off, wished them luck, and headed

for home. My son was on his own now. Nobody there to tell him

how to fade a five-iron, how to play that tricky downhiller, how

to hit the sand shot. And what if there's lightning? What about

hypothermia? A runaway golf cart? A band of militant gophers?

He's so small. Who would take care of him?

There I was, alone, driving away from him. Not just for

now. Forever. This was it. The bond was broken. Life would never

be the same.

I walked in the door. " What are you doing home? " my wife

asked.

I knew it would sound like some 13-year-old who was the

only one in the gang not invited to the slumber party, but

maintaining my immature demeanor, I said it anyway

" I wasn't invited, " I replied, with a trace of snottiness.

Another one of those peculiar pauses ensued. Then my wife

laughed. Out loud. At first I was hurt. Then I, too, laughed,

the situation suddenly becoming much clearer.

I went back to the bathroom remodel and began realizing

that this is what life is all about: change. This is what

fathers and sons must ultimately do: change. This is what I've

been preparing him for since he first looked at me and screamed

in terror: not to play golf without me, but to take on the world

without me. With his own set of clubs. His own game plan. His

own faith.

God was remodeling my son. Adding some space here. Putting

in a new feature there. In short, allowing him to become more

than he could ever be if I continued to hover over him. Just

like when I was a kid and, at 's age, I would sling my plaid

golf bag over my shoulder and ride my bike five miles across

town to play golf at a small public course called sville

that I imagined as Augusta National.

I remember how grown-up I felt, walking into that dark

clubhouse, the smoke rising from the poker game off to the left,

and proudly pluncking down my two dollars for nine holes. Would

I have wanted my father there with me that day? Naw. A boy's

gotta do what a boy's gotta do: grow up.

I went back to the bathroom remodel project. A few hours

later, I heard walk in the front door. I heard him complain

to his mother that his putts wouldn't drop, that his drives were

slicing, and that the course was like a lake. He sounded like

someone I knew. His tennis shoes squeaked with water as I heard

him walk back to where I was working on the bathroom.

" Dad, " he said, dripping on the floor, " my game stinks. Can

you take me golfing sometime? I need some help. "

I wanted to hug him. Rev my radial-arm saw in celebration.

Shout: " I'm still needed! " I wanted to tell God, " Thanks for

letting me be part of this kid's remodel job. "

Instead, I got one of those serious-dad looks on my face

and stoically said, " Sure, Ry, anytime. "

By Bob Welch

Reprinted by permission of Bob Welch © 2000, from the upcoming

Chicken Soup for the Father's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor

Hansen, Mark and Chrissy Donnelly and Jeff Aubery.