Yeah, I was offered the chance to move up the ranks as a coach once my own career ended thanks to a crippling knee injury, but my heart wasn’t in it, so when I was offered the opportunity to take over the head coach role at my old high school, I jumped at the chance, wanting to follow in my dad’s footsteps.
He was my first coach, teaching me from the time I could hold a ball how important sportsmanship was, how learning the fundamentals and practicing them over and over again would give me muscle memory when needed. I owe my own career to him, and being able to teach my team what he gave me might not get them to the pros, but it’ll hopefully give them the life skills and tools they need to achieve their own personal goals. I just wish Dusty could’ve known him better before he passed away, but it wasn’t meant to be. Thankfully, I’ve got a ton of videos of the two of them out on the football field, my son toddling around in his football uniform as my dad’s team ‘taught’ him how to play. They’re fucking priceless, and I’m glad I have them.
“You’re not a has-been, what you do has value and worth,” I say out loud while jotting it down. “As far as what having Dusty did to that bitch’s body, well, I honestly thought it showed how much of a warrior she was, carrying our child and keeping him safe until he was born. Stretch marks are a badge of courage as far as I’m concerned. I’m sure she wouldn’t be able to handle the scars I know Sunday has, she’d probably think she would be better off dead or something.”
For the next hour, as the movie drones on in the background, I write, pouring out my fears and frustrations. I worry that Dusty not having any real maternal involvement in his life will hurt him somehow, since my mom is gone as well, and Stacey’s parents cut off contact once she split and we divorced. He gets some from my sister, who loves on him as though he was her own, but it’s not the same. I dread the day he asks me why he wasn’t enough for his mother to stay, and pray it doesn’t happen for a few more years at least.
What the hell can I possibly tell him? I guess, depending on how old he is at the time, it’ll be the truth, or as much of it as I think he’s able to handle.
Tiredness begins to seep in, so I put everything away, get up and take a piss, then check to make sure the house is locked up for the night before I peer in on Dusty one more time.
“Night, little man. Your dad loves you more than all the stars in the sky.”
Bouncing against my full kidneys has me opening one eye to see my boy grinning down at me. “Wake up, Dad!” he squeals. “You said we're going to the park today, remember?”
“Let your old man up, son,” I mumble. Once he’s moved off of me, I roll out of bed and stretch to get all the kinks out. I may not be all that old, but the years of punishment I took on the field mean that every morning I snap, crackle, and pop as though I’m nearing my geriatric years.
“I'm ready for breakfast,” Dusty says. “Want me to get it started or what?”
“Give me a few, little man, okay?” I ask, moving to my bathroom. “I’ll be out in a few minutes, go ahead and head into the kitchen.” Hell, he’s no longer a toddler, but my habit of calling him little man persists. I expect it’ll be his nickname, or one of them, at least, until the day I draw my last breath.
I waste no time going through my morning routine, tossing on clean jeans, a t-shirt, and my socks before I make my way to my son. He already has our bowls and spoons out, so I hit the button on my coffee pot, then head to the pantry to pull out a box of cereal. “How about a banana this morning to go with your cereal?” I ask, handing him the box once I’ve filled my bowl.
“I’d rather have strawberries, please,” he replies, bouncing in his seat, a byproduct of his ADHD. Ruffling his hair, I grab the milk and juice from the fridge, set it on the table so he can start eating, then set about cutting up some strawberries. Once he’s taken care of, I pour myself a cup of joe, then quickly fry up a couple of eggs, and make some toast to go along with my cereal.
“We’ve got to do our chores before we head to the park, Dusty,” I remind him once I’m seated at the table. “Then, after the park, we’ll grab some pizza, how does that sound?”
“I like pizza,” he says, grinning at me.
“So do I, little man, so do I. Should we get wings tonight too? There’s a game on.”
“Football!” he exclaims, now bouncing in his seat.
“Yeah, bud. Are you ready?” I tease, playing off the old commercial, even though he’s far too young to catch the reference.
“Yes! I’m done, Dad. What now?”
“Go ahead and put your stuff in the sink, then you can get dressed.”
He tries so hard to be independent, which is fine, but he still needs direction from time to time. Time is flying by so damn quickly; it seems like only yesterday he was dependent on me for everything, and now, for the most part at least, he’s handling things on his own with some oversight from me. Sighing, I finish up my own breakfast, then make short work of cleaning the kitchen.
Finally satisfied that everything is spic and span once again, I start the dishwasher, then walk to Dusty’s room to see how much progress he’s made. Typically, he gets sidetracked by one of his games or a book, but today, I’m pleasantly surprised to see he’s dressed and is picking up his room. He’s already got his clothes hamper out of his closet, his books are back on their shelf, and even though it’s crooked as hell, he’s made his bed.
“Great job, Dusty,” I praise as I grab an errant sock from underneath the bed. “You get better at this all the time, don’t you?”
“From watching you, Dad,” he replies, grinning at me. He already looks like he’s going to be as tall as me, and it’s honestly like looking in a mirror sometimes.
His words nearly send me to my knees, a reminder that everything I do or say is being monitored by my kid. We’ve already had to have a talk about some of the words he’s used, thanks to my own inability to stop swearing. I chuckle when I remember that first one happening, the second day of kindergarten. Damn, does time fly.
“Well, you’re doing a fantastic job.”
Seeing my boy running around the park, without a care in the world, loosens something inside. He’s got such a pure, gentle heart, which guts me when I realize his own mother didn’t want him. I don’t understand why, either. I mean, even though I ended up having to retire from playing pro football, I made enough while still an active player to lead a good, financially stable life. The only reason I took a coaching job at my old high school was because there was no way I could sit on my ass the rest of my life while doing nothing. No more, and no less. Well, health insurance, too, of course, because I had to make sure I could get Dusty seen by his physician if he got sick. It’s also one of the reasons I changed my career path from what I had planned to do; become a paramedic. Working as a teacher and coach gives me the ability to be with my son at night, whereas, if I had gone into that field, I’d work day-long shifts. I wasn’t willing to miss that much of his life, so pushed that dream to the back of my mind, and focused on being the best dad and teacher possible instead.