MetroReach

It's 98 degrees outside. I'm 44. My son is 14. I have 3 ankle reconstructions and a knee cartilage problem on my medical resume. My son once broke his thumb. I am 5 feet 8 and 3/4 (and that 3/4 is important to me because it means I almost made it to 5'9"-my son is just at 6'2".  Did I mention it is 98 degrees outside?

We just came back from playing basketball and doing some track work. Christian, the kid I have been referring to as my son, well, he can grab the rim and hang on it, but not yet dunk. He's doing plyometrics, lifting weights, doing speed work...because he wants to dunk before the end of summer. I once knicked the rim with my finger when I was 23.

We've been having a fun time hanging out, being guys...and today, Christian wanted me to go to the Middle School court where he works on his drills and help him with drills, go to the track and run with him, and then play him in a game. We were out there for an hour and a half. It really was hot because it was...98 degrees.

We brought water, lots of water. I promised afterwards to get him the "Big Gatorade" not to be confused with Elaine's "Big Salad" (a television reference for those of you who have re-runs as a part of your history-and boom, there was a song reference).  And we did all he wanted to do. We had a blast.

First we went to the track. Walked the first 400 meters just to loosen up. Stretched a bit. Then we jogged a 400, walked another to loosen up. Then we ran a 400. I was "feelin' it." Doing good. Then we moved to running 100's.  The first 100-I was on my game. I was flying. Memories of speed and explosiveness long since gone resurfaced. For one fleeting moment I was that 27 year old youth minister competing in a fitness contest in Garland (out of 70 something participants, I finished 2nd...that was a big deal to me)-and I was that guy who clocked a 4.62 40. I beat my son. YESSSSS! I could hear him behind me, close behind me, but I won.

The ego swells. I walk around the track with my hands folded behind my head...trying to talkasif I can really breathe..."Good effort son...you just need to open your legs more...get off quicker...I heard you closing in...you finished well..."  I should have stopped at that point. I should have drank out of my water bottle and said, "Well boy...your dad still rules..." but I didn't. I couldn't. I was Carl Lewis.

So we ran again. Another 100. Did I mention that by now my lungs are burning and yes...it's still 98 degrees? This time he gets off fast. This time he's shoulder to shoulder with me. This time he pulls away at the 40 yard mark. This time he's 10 feet in front of me at the 70 yard mark. This time he finishes about 17 feet in front of me. He turns around and smiles. Hmmm...what to say?

"Son...I wanted to focus on your form and noticed your elbows were a bit flared, bring them in closer."  (That is the reason of course I was so far behind).  But he's not buying it. He's laughing. "Dad...if my elbows were in closer would I have been even FURTHER ahead?"  O.K.-that trick might have worked 4 years ago-but it's not working now.

So I "coached" him as he ran some 50's and then some 40's.  Let him do all the work. We still have to get to the basketball court.

Oh, did I mention I forgot my hightops were blown out and I had to borrow a pair of his to play basketball? Did I mention I wear a 9 1/2 or a 10 depending on the shoe-and he wears a 13 or 13 1/2 depending on the shoe? I felt like I was trying to move with snow skis on my feet.

We got into his daily routine. He does this normally by himself while I'm at work. Dribbling drills, shooting left handed, right handed, lay-ups, pull-up jumpers, mid-range shots, three pointers. This is what he does on his own usually in the mornings. But I'm there now.  I am now "passing" guy-which is a good role because it means I'm not trying to run around a lot with these boats on my feet. It's good because again, he's doing the work.

Then comes game time. Game time has to come. It's a rite of passage for every son-but I haven't been able to stop him since he was just under 13. So I know what's coming.

Scheming dad shows up again: "Son-you say you want to work more on your left-handed dribble. This game, all you can do is use your left hand. To dribble. To shoot." His reply: "What about you-do you use both hands?" Of course I do. "Dad, can I crossover?" I reply: "Of course not son, because then the ball touches your right hand." He does not seem to pick up on this one. I am pleased.

We start to play. I'm wearing boats, my ankles are creaking and my left knee is ticked off that I'm trying to move laterally. I body up. Hard. (O.K.-I'm fouling hard). He keeps going to the basket, shoots left handed....rims out. I get the ball. Taking it barely to the backcourt I spin quickly (it caught us both off guard) and I get by him and throw up an off balanced fade-away over his outstretched arms about 10 feet from the rim, and nothing but net.  I act as if I always do that all the time. I am Manu Ginobili.

Next possession, he just blows by me and lays it in. I was trying to bump him. No dice. This pattern continues. I do score one more basket...from about 2 feet beyond 3 point land because frankly I'm too tired to even want to drive. It drops. Of course I knew it would. I am Big Shot Rob.

But Christian wins. Left handed. He wins because he's a lot better than me. I try to tell him that it would have been a close game about 15 years ago.  Of course it would dad...I wasn't born yet. He misses the point. Ego deflated. I am the guy in the NBA who doesn't get to dress for games. I know he still would have won had I played him 15 years ago. Funny how pride works.

I am beet red. Sweat and toxins are pouring out of my body. I am in the Sudan. My lungs burn. I am going to die. He decides to work on free throws. I become rebounding guy. I like that job. Little movement involved. He makes his freethrows and then we leave.

Home. Sanctuary. Cold shower and a huge glass of ice water. Life is good. He's relaxing now, getting ready for practice tonight. Life is good. I am alive and the AC works-so it'sall good.

But not as good as it was outside in that 98 degree temperature. That was fantastic. This was a Sabbath of sorts. Father and son-not about competing or winning or losing, not about the heat or the smack talk. It was about communication.

You see, we talked about other things as well. I am blessed. My son and I are close. It was great to be with him and not worrying about phone calls, "to do" lists, appointments, schedules...just being together and talking about life. Everything from basketball to girls to God.

I joke when I say I should file this experience under the "What was I thinking?" cabinet. This cabinet can never be full enough. Because, as I mentioned in a previous Blog...time flies.

Yesterday I was an invincible 20 something youth minister who ran a 4.62 40 and benched 280 lbs while weighing 164 pounds.  Today, well, my 40 yard dash time might require a calendar. Oh, I still am a workout freak...but time catches up with us all. Things slow down, break down, wear down...

But I wouldn't trade whatever "glorious experiences" from the past-whether it was that fitness challenge or completing a triathlon in Wisconsin for what happened today in the sweltering heat of San Antonio in June. Those personal things-they feel nice and what not-but it's when we're outside ourselves and investing in others-especially the ones we love the most-you know, those people that are known as "family"-those are the important times. So...time flies.

It's what we do with the time we have here that counts. And never let anyone sell you the lie that the time you spend investing in family and friends is a "waste of time"-it's not. It's holy and special and all too often we get so caught up in "our" thing that we forget the people who are so important to us.

And that's a tragedy. And we wonder why so many families don't communicate... why so many kids won't talk to their parents. I have a gut feeling it's because too many times we are too busy for our own good and we send the message to those we love-"I'm too busy...but I'llget around to you."

Wrong message. Time flies.

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