T. GAMBLE: Sometimes, the kids teach their fathers lessons

They always say that you can’t really understand what it takes to raise children until you have them. You know, they don’t make an owner’s manual, and you sort of just figure it out as you go. That’s how I pretty much approach everything else in life, so why should child-rearing be any different?

If they had a manual, I’d ignore it anyway. I never look at an owner’s manual until after I’ve pretty much screwed up whatever it is I didn’t look at the owner’s manual for in the first place. Hopefully that is not the case with my now almost grown children.

One thing folks definitely did not tell me was that as much as I wanted to be successful, and as much as failing at certain things hurt and frustrated me, it pales in comparison to when, as a parent, I watched my child have a result that is not what they wished for. It could be failing to get the part they wanted in a play. Or not starting on the basketball team. A boy or girl breaking up with them or not wanting to go out with them in the first place.

The pain of watching such things, and not being able to do one dad-gum thing about it is truly miserable. Right now, as I watch my son play football, I’m much more upset with what happens than he ever will be.

I think back to when my son was playing Little League baseball. We had a good team. The perennial power, however, was the Webster County Polecats. They take their T-ball and Little League very seriously. We finally met in the league championship for all the marbles. We flat out wore them out, beat them by a score of something like 18-6.

But the championship requires that every player who is on the team, and in the dugout, must play at least a few innings in the championship game or your team must forfeit. We had a little girl who had fractured her ankle a few days before the championship game. She came to the game all suited up in her little baseball uniform. She could hardly walk and clearly could not play. But she asked if she could sit in the dugout during the game and we let her.

After the game ended, the coaches for Webster immediately went to the umpire and protested that a member of the team in the dugout had not played and we must forfeit. We explained the situation. The refs met and then declared Webster County the champions. They would each get a first-place trophy, and we would get a second-place trophy, team and individual.

Forget the fact we just destroyed them head-to-head. You could not have poured gasoline on top of my head, lit me afire and made me any hotter.

Now I occasionally read articles where someone kills a buddy arguing over a spilled drink or about which pro team had the best all-time quarterback. I always think “What in the world were they thinking?” Well, now I know.

I thought I’ll just pick up all those first-place trophies and smash ‘em in the ground. That will show them. Of course, that wouldn’t be the best example for the Hurricane boy, but I guess he was going to have to toughen up because I was about to go to prison for a triple homicide anyway. I guess it had been some time since I got in a real outright fist fight, but this looked like a good time to pick back up a bad habit.

But then I looked to the right, and my son plus all his buddies were off to the side, giggling and playing and looking at all those adults about ready to have their heads explode. I could not believe those pitiful excuses for adult human beings were stealing away my son’s championship trophy.

Or was it my trophy I was worried about? You see I was so caught up in the obvious injustice, and the fact that everybody wants to be the champion, that I forgot it wasn’t really about me at all, but my child. I don’t think he really cared too much.

Now I still don’t have much respect for those so-called men who decided to steal the trophy, but in reality it didn’t amount to a hill of beans. I’m glad I’m not in Reidsville thinking about it now. I’m glad we just moved on from that game.

So I’ll still hurt more than they will when the world turns against them. And I’ll promise to keep my head and not do anything too rash. Unless, of course, when we play Deerfield in football this Friday night. If they try to steal the thing, I’m coming off the top rope like Rick Flair. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.