I thought I'd lost him.
March Madness approached, and my 16 year old son hadn't asked what my plans were for the Sunday Selection Show.
For my son, that day is second only to Christmas in terms of anticipation. It's the unveiling of the NCAA Tournament grid and the start of the High Holy Days of College Basketball: the 64 team playoff.
As soon as my boy could write, he'd fill out a stack of grids, some very analytical and others chock-full of long shot victors. He LOVES underdogs and upsets, so the potential for the status quo to be turned on it's ear was just too sexy to pass up.
He'd watch all the conference tournaments, the more obscure the better. He'd pass on the Big Ten to see the Patriot League title game. C'mon, Colgate!
There'd be the inevitable conflicts--rehearsals, sports practices, homework, family obligations that would all be met with great growling and gnashing of teeth. The VHS and later, the DVR, would glow red with all the missed games he'd record, and then watch later...sometimes into the wee smalls. Time without games to watch was spent in the neighbor's driveway playing hoop, playing out the grid through a series of one-on-one battles that became harder for yours truly to remain competitive in as time went on and I grew shorter (he couldn't possibly be taller than me, swatting away my jumpers like flies).
Selection Sunday approached last weekend, and the buildup was conspicuously lacking.
Turning 16 does things to a boy. Shaving. Driving. Dating.
Yeah, that last one.
I'd talked to my son in the past about the eventuality of the fairer sex taking some of the edge off his sports hankerin's. I remember lots of baseball stats from my pre-hormone youth but draw tons of blanks after walking on the estrogen side of the street. I told him that the day would come, maybe sooner, maybe later, but that it happens to every guy and that he probably won't hear the shot that drops him.
I remember him looking at me as if I had three eyes. What do you mean, he said? No matter what happens, THIS will always be what is. It shall not be challenged.
We all say it.
Few, if any, live to keep it.
So it seemed, this March of 2007, as my boy said little of Selection Sunday, the upcoming tourney, the grids, the upsets, the Madness. Instead, I heard a lot of plans that didn't include the Selection Show, including a date that would run well past the program's conclusion.
Wow, I thought. He fell fast. He tumbled hard.
The date came and went Sunday night. The front door opened. The boy walked in.
Then, he dashed downstairs....and flicked the tube on.
And, the DVR.
To watch The Selection Show.
Next came the trip to the printer, and the eventual deconstruction of the brackets.
I've already been told that it's my job to text him partial scores as often as possible Thursday and Friday while he's in class. He's talked to virtually every teacher to find out who might consider providing an electronic portal to the NCAA world. A computer. A radio. Maybe even (dare to dream) television!
My boy's back, not that he ever left. He just has some other things to do. Just like all of us.
March Madness approached, and my 16 year old son hadn't asked what my plans were for the Sunday Selection Show.
For my son, that day is second only to Christmas in terms of anticipation. It's the unveiling of the NCAA Tournament grid and the start of the High Holy Days of College Basketball: the 64 team playoff.
As soon as my boy could write, he'd fill out a stack of grids, some very analytical and others chock-full of long shot victors. He LOVES underdogs and upsets, so the potential for the status quo to be turned on it's ear was just too sexy to pass up.
He'd watch all the conference tournaments, the more obscure the better. He'd pass on the Big Ten to see the Patriot League title game. C'mon, Colgate!
There'd be the inevitable conflicts--rehearsals, sports practices, homework, family obligations that would all be met with great growling and gnashing of teeth. The VHS and later, the DVR, would glow red with all the missed games he'd record, and then watch later...sometimes into the wee smalls. Time without games to watch was spent in the neighbor's driveway playing hoop, playing out the grid through a series of one-on-one battles that became harder for yours truly to remain competitive in as time went on and I grew shorter (he couldn't possibly be taller than me, swatting away my jumpers like flies).
Selection Sunday approached last weekend, and the buildup was conspicuously lacking.
Turning 16 does things to a boy. Shaving. Driving. Dating.
Yeah, that last one.
I'd talked to my son in the past about the eventuality of the fairer sex taking some of the edge off his sports hankerin's. I remember lots of baseball stats from my pre-hormone youth but draw tons of blanks after walking on the estrogen side of the street. I told him that the day would come, maybe sooner, maybe later, but that it happens to every guy and that he probably won't hear the shot that drops him.
I remember him looking at me as if I had three eyes. What do you mean, he said? No matter what happens, THIS will always be what is. It shall not be challenged.
We all say it.
Few, if any, live to keep it.
So it seemed, this March of 2007, as my boy said little of Selection Sunday, the upcoming tourney, the grids, the upsets, the Madness. Instead, I heard a lot of plans that didn't include the Selection Show, including a date that would run well past the program's conclusion.
Wow, I thought. He fell fast. He tumbled hard.
The date came and went Sunday night. The front door opened. The boy walked in.
Then, he dashed downstairs....and flicked the tube on.
And, the DVR.
To watch The Selection Show.
Next came the trip to the printer, and the eventual deconstruction of the brackets.
I've already been told that it's my job to text him partial scores as often as possible Thursday and Friday while he's in class. He's talked to virtually every teacher to find out who might consider providing an electronic portal to the NCAA world. A computer. A radio. Maybe even (dare to dream) television!
My boy's back, not that he ever left. He just has some other things to do. Just like all of us.
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