Tales from the Dad Side (8 page)

Never Lick a Steak Knife

T
hanks to my wife's three pregnancies and several knee operations I discovered there are a trio of machines a man filling in for his bride should never attempt to operate: a washer-dryer, a kitchen stove, and, for painfully obvious reasons, a breast pump. Just seeing a guy try to find the on switch for the last item would be as hilarious as watching Richard Simmons wander the tool corral at Home Depot.

“Honey, remember, all of the world's greatest chefs are men,” I announced shortly after my wife deputized me as chief food-preparation officer. Still recuperating from a knee surgery, she was splayed out watching
Oprah
as I slid open the deck door to preheat the only cooking contraption a man is truly comfortable operating, my 75,000 BTU natural-gas and semiatomic grill. It was the closest thing on our homestead to a vulcanizing killing machine.

“Mommy! Daddy's baking brownies in the barbecue!” my youngest proudly announced to my wife, who was surely trying to recall the phone number for the pizza place that was on standby to provide our family with sustenance whenever I destroyed entire meals. I had never heard of anyone baking brownies on the grill, but it seemed possible; besides, there was the possibility I was on the verge of a culinary showstopper that family members would talk about for years to come.

“They're perfect!” I announced thirty-two minutes after I stuck
the brownies into the grill, waving them under the nose of my wife, who seemed pleasantly surprised. I tried not to gloat in the direction of my wife, because she had never made molten brownie surprise before. Once they were cool to the touch, I started to cut up the pan of brownies, but a funny thing happened on the way to dessert—I pushed and I plunged, yet I couldn't jam the knife any deeper than a half inch. Suddenly the hint of a smile appeared on my wife's face; maybe the perfect meal wasn't so perfect after all.

“Dad, what's the matter with the brownies?”

Apparently Duncan Hines's technicians had concocted their recipe for preparation with actual kitchen appliances, not a roaring unbridled gas grill. To the naked eye it looked like a brownie, but the bottom half had undergone some chemical reaction and had fused itself together as an impenetrable brown briquette.

“Sally, go get me the
widow maker.
”

She knew exactly what I wanted, a knife that was a gift from a hunter friend and had arrived in a box that said it was suitable for gutting a moose, puncturing the tire of an approaching enemy troop carrier, or cutting your arm off if stuck on a mountainside. My immediate plan was simple: I would cut the brownies into squares and then slice the tasty brownie top from its concrete-basement bottom layer.

The widow maker made quick work of my cooking calamity. I was able to easily cut up about a dozen two-inch brownie squares. “By cooking everything on one grill we didn't dirty as many pans, didn't heat up the house, and saved some time and plenty of electricity.” I made a note to myself never to utter any of that aloud again, as I felt I sounded like Paula Deen and Al Gore's love child.

With the brownie squares, I would next cut the top layer from the rock-hard bottom, fillet style. Initially I applied a lot of pressure cutting through what felt like iron until I suddenly hit a soft spot, which, given the pressure I was using, sent the knife careening haphazardly through the rest of the brownie, quickly exiting and coming to a stop in midair only after slashing across the top of my middle
finger, cleanly lopping off the tip. With the end of my finger then hanging by a thread as I looked at it for a moment, I thought, That has got to hurt.

Within two seconds the hysterical department of my brain received the message from my hand. Our backyard had not witnessed such a melee since a bat swooped out of the sky, knocked himself out cold on the lemonade pitcher, and fell into a bowl of coleslaw, prompting my entire family to bolt from the table as if they had electrodes wired directly to their tonsils.

“Daddddddyyyyyyy!”
Sally screamed.
“I'll get the ice!”

The only ice that I needed at that moment was Smirnoff Ice, a really tall one, applied directly to my finger as an antiseptic and then directly into my bloodstream because I
JUST CUT OFF MY FINGERTIP!

With blood squirting out
Monty Python
style, my wife, always cool under pressure, took charge. “You need a stitch,” she announced as she grabbed her crutches, ready to drive me immediately to the I-told-you-so entrance of our local hospital. Because the fingertip was hanging by a thread, the do-it-yourselfer in me flapped it back in place, and I then applied pressure and pigheadedness to stop the bleeding. There was another reason I didn't want to go: The last time I went to the ER was the day I dropped a four-by-eight sheet of plywood with a razor-sharp edge on my big toenail, which split into a disgusting stump of toe and blood, prompting the doctor to observe, “Oh my God, I'm not touching that!” and he did not. But he did charge me $145 for the privilege of scaring him.

Back to the current self-mutilation. I fully bandaged and Neo-sporined my finger and then defiantly returned to the table, which was a culinary crime scene with blood spatters everywhere; the only thing missing was a little chalk outline around the brownie pan. With my middle finger bandaged thickly I kept it raised above heart level, making me look like I was flipping off somebody while making a pledge: “Do you promise never to do anything really incredibly stupid or dangerous in the kitchen, so help you God?”

“I do. Will somebody get Daddy the barrel of Advil from Costco?”

Everybody seemed happy that their sugar daddy would survive the night, and a little surprised that the first thing I did after dodging the loss of an extremity was return to my chore and cut the edible brownie from its mortar bottom.

“Dad, you can't make us eat them,” my son, Peter, our in-house garbage can, said, surprising me. Unable to convince a single one of my children and certainly not my wife, I dined alone on what was the most painful dessert I'd ever created.

My wife makes the best meals imaginable, always healthy and creative. I don't know whatever possessed me to think I could compete with her in her arena. If I'm ever called upon again to substitute for my wife in the kitchen, we're going to a restaurant, we'll get takeout, or as a last resort I'll get a family-sized IV drip bag full of glucose (which is very filling) from one of my friends in surgical scrubs.

Fathers are great at many things, but they can never replace a mother, so don't even bother trying. I'm lousy in the kitchen and barely better in the laundry. While saving money on dry cleaning I found it an absolute breeze to shrink two of my wife's new Lilly Pulitzer skirts to the size of a pair of tube socks. She was furious until my daughter realized that the newly remodeled skirts would handily fit an overlooked member of the family, Malibu Barbie.

The Coach Bag

W
hen of kindergarten age, our son, Peter, started his sports career. We arrived at his first practice on a chilly October morning afraid he was more likely to catch a cold than a pass. We layered him first with long johns, then a polar fleece sweat suit, and over it all his actual jersey and shorts. In these thermal yet restrictive clothing choices, he had the on-field mobility of the Tin Man in
The Wizard of Oz.

The soccer field was next to an abandoned Nike missile silo that once stood vigil for nearby Washington, D.C., and although the Cold War was wrapping up, in the back of our heads we always worried that some rogue Russian general might push the button and take out a league of Kinder Kickers.

From a father's perspective sports are great because they help a child develop athletic and social skills as their parents hang out and gossip about the neighbors who sleep around. We became friendly with every parent except one father. Brendan was a good boy and great player, but I avoided his dad, who was then the director of the FBI, Louis Freeh. Rumor had it the Mafia, small-time crooks from up the river, and some little-known group of radical Islamic extremists with a name that had a bunch of vowels in it all wanted him dead. And standing on the sideline drinking a Dunkin' Donut hazelnut coffee made him a sitting duck. Why should I stand next to him?
Don't get me wrong, I'm a big athletic supporter, but I had to draw the line at political assassination.

In our town there was a fair and balanced rule that every child must play half of every game, but a number of my son's coaches, who shall remain nameless for the purpose of avoiding lawsuits, refused. They would put him in with thirty seconds left in the first half and then in the second half for the last one minute if the team was winning.

“What are you talking about? He played both halves, didn't he?” one of his coaches would say. “Okay, maybe I made a mistake, but next time he'll start. See you Saturday.” He never started on Saturday.

Warming the bench in baseball, Peter was called to pinch-hit for one of the starters, who'd gotten hurt. Peter strode to the plate exactly as two hometown celebrities arrived at the game.

“Hey, it's Phil Simms!” somebody yelled, and the entire bench and every head of every parent in the stands turned around to get a good look at two-time Super Bowl quarterback Phil Simms and his son Chris. During that moment of stargazing, the only two people at the game paying attention were my son and the pitcher, who threw his first pitch low and outside. Peter was used to not playing in a game, so despite a bad pitch he took a step toward the ball and whacked it good. The crack of the bat surprised both teams, who stopped looking at the Simmses and tried to find the ball. They had no idea where it was.

“Take three!” the third-base coach yelled, but Peter knew Phil Simms was watching and would later apologize for running past third and heading for home.

“Peter,
go back to third
!” his coach was yelling, and for good reason—the ball was now in the glove of our town's best player. Within three seconds Peter would be toast.

“Slide, Peter, slide!” my wife yelled in that “Run, Forrest, run” voice.

A cloud of dust and a moment of hesitation as the ball and the boy arrived at home plate simultaneously.

“He's safe!”

The entire crowd went wild because nobody had ever seen him play before, let alone get his first home run.

“Good hit, kid,” Phil Simms said when he passed Peter on the way out. I entertained the idea of hiring the Super Bowl legend for all of the team's home games, but his asking price was too much, and the only player I could afford, Mookie Wilson, did not have the same impact on the team's psyche.

Despite his first home run and a sensational slide home, coaches thought it was a fluke, and Peter spent much of the next three seasons on the bench. By seventh grade, out of twenty-one sports and twenty-one coaches, Peter had had two who always put him in, Jim Madormo and Rob Gephardt. Most of the rest usually had an excuse for why their sons played the whole game and Peter warmed the bench. With a single season left before high school ball, I knew that unless Peter played a lot, he'd never make it to the varsity team, which was his dream. After seven seasons of humiliation there was just one thing to do.

I volunteered to coach.

If
SportsCenter
had my highlight reel it would consist of a single inopportune football mix-up where I surprisingly scored for the other team. At the end of that game I was informed by the basketball coach that during the upcoming basketball season, I would be going out for wrestling.

My wife is the complete volunteer at our house, a Sunday school teacher, Scout leader, Academic Decathlon sponsor, team booster, and room mother. I'm envious because she can do anything; I, on the other hand, am best suited to be an organ donor.

Unquestionably unqualified to coach, I picked up
Coaching for Dummies,
a whistle, a clipboard, and a can of Cruex. I never needed that but was flattered if people thought I might be so sweaty that I would. Now that I had the gear, all I needed was a bunch of boys. At
the town baseball draft, one father-coach had an Excel spreadsheet with the record of everybody going back to third grade; another had a chart with cut-and-paste faces of each kid in our town. For my preparation Peter wrote down the names of the kids he wanted on the team on the back of a Visa bill envelope.

An elaborate formula, based upon how each coach's son had been rated the previous season, would determine who'd get the first pick. The other fathers had all coached before and each gave his kid the highest mark, the local equivalent of giving your son a Heisman. Peter's previous coach never put him in, so he was given the lowest score, which meant I got the first pick. I selected the best player in town and checked off one name on the Visa bill.

Over the next excruciating hour tempers flared, feelings were hurt, and lies were told. On my second pick one of the fathers told me why I couldn't get the best pitcher in town: “He's a family friend and I promised his dad I'd drive his son to practice.” I let the guy take the kid, and later asked the father of the pitcher.

“Who? I've never met that guy.”

Liar, liar, clipboard on fire.

No wonder they wouldn't put Peter in. Some of these guys would stop at nothing to win. Much to their horror I wound up with all but one of the names on the Visa bill, and we wound up with a roster so powerful that they still refer to it in our town as the Illegal Rec Team of 2001. There was one problem: me. So I turned to Peter, who'd studied the game from the bench; he would make up each game's lineup. During practices and games when I was clueless I'd quietly ask our catcher, Michael, the son of a great coach, for some guidance.

“Michael?” I'd practically whisper.

“What, Mr. Doocy?”

“Was that a strike?”

“No, it was low and outside.”

“Ball, low and outside!” I'd announce in a clear strong voice, reassuring the parents in the stands that I knew what I was doing.

Of all of the things I've done with my son, that season was our best time together. Not only was it great, but it had a
Movie of the Week
ending—the clueless coach's team wound up in the town's World Series. It came down to the final inning, and when I told the son of another coach that he was going to pitch, but he informed me that his dad wouldn't let him, I had to turn to somebody who'd pitched only one game before, our catcher, Michael. With the score tied and the title on the line, he seemed to be struggling, so I called the first time-out of my career and took the long walk to the mound.

“When the coach comes out here to the mound, what is he supposed to tell the pitcher, Michael?”

“To throw strikes, Coach.”

“Didn't you already know that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, I think we're done.”

A triumphant season—we took second place. My mission was accomplished: Peter got the experience he needed and would play four years of high school baseball, exactly why I had volunteered. That night at my retirement dinner my daughter Mary surprised me. “I thought you were going to be my coach!”

Quid pro coach
.

Coaching middle-school girls was like herding cats. They didn't pay attention, and desperately trying to focus them, I found myself screaming instructions. By the third week I was waking up with the husky voice of Brenda Vaccaro.

The throat doctor told me, “You've got a bad case of preacher's notch,” a syndrome named after hellfire and brimstone ministers who preached to the flock at high volume. “Don't feel bad. A lot of guys get this. You a stock trader?”

“Girls' coach.”

Understanding the torture, he prescribed two weeks of no talking. Apparently the doctor was a CNN viewer and didn't know what I did. At work I continued to speak, about half as loudly as usual, but
at practices and games I did a lot of pointing and pantomime. One of my most innovative ideas was when we were behind, I'd get a buck out of my wallet and wave it.

“Dollar offense!” one of my players would holler.

The other team would be impressed that we had names for plays, when in fact “dollar offense” simply meant whoever scored would get a dollar from me. It was very effective; I'm sure other coaches would be horrified, but I'm confident that by now the statute of limitations has run out on my playola.

Once again my team was in the playoffs. My daughter Mary, our best pitcher, was on the mound when the opposing father-coach opened his yap trap. “Girls, don't worry, this pitcher can't get it across the plate. She's terrible!” No wonder that nitwit had made his own daughter cry one inning earlier. “Is that the best you can do, honey?” he asked my daughter, who was now crying on the mound. Her sister, Sally, led the bench in a chant: “Mary, Mary, she's our woman, if she can't do it nobody can!”

“Hey, shorty,” the evil coach said in the direction of my youngest. “Put down the pom-poms.”

I had heard enough and was ready to give him a reason to get that much-deserved nose job. I stared him down as I walked out to the pitching circle, where I told my daughter that if she didn't finish the inning, the terrorist would win.

Showing great poise, she retired the side to finish the inning, and we won. But Coach Bigmouth had wrecked it for her forever—it was the last time she'd ever pitch a ball. The next day I saw that guy in church, where, I know, it was wrong for me to hope that a lightning bolt would kill him on the spot, but sometimes a guy's mind wanders during the sermon when they're asking for money.

Telling Mary I understood why she quit, I said I would too, prompting my third grader Sally to wonder, “Did you forget about me? Now you're my coach, right?”

Coaching little girls Sally's age was certainly the most fun because they didn't care about the score, or accuracy; they were there mainly
for the snacks. One game there was so much giggling and inattention that I believe we fell behind during the national anthem.

Sally didn't really like to play, hated practice, and never came close to catching a ball. But it all changed the day my TV producer, Matt Singerman, called and asked, “Can one of your kids come in tomorrow? Cal Ripken has a book out about teaching kids to play ball, and he wants somebody to throw the ball to.”

My older children were both busy that next day, leaving the girl who could not catch.

“Cal who?” When I told her, Sally then wondered, “Do I get a costume?”

“No uniform, but you'll be on television.”

A television appearance was a great motivator. That night we practiced for hours, and the next day Cal Ripken threw a dozen balls her direction and she caught every one. The next day a couple of the cool kids told Sally they'd seen her on television, and she suddenly liked the game. She got better, more confident, and then she sandbagged me with the five scariest words for a father-coach.

“Dad, I want to pitch.”

I wasn't worried about her losing the game—I could do that on my own. I worried about the heartless parents who would heckle her. So I made her a deal: “Let's practice, and if you're ready, you can pitch in the last game of the season.”

I knew she'd forget about that the same way she'd forgotten her promises to walk the dog, water the garden, and feed the hermit crab. Remarkably, every day after school she practiced, and she got quite good. Peter helped, and we'd all drill in the backyard together. One day I promised to take them both to the Dairy Queen when we were done.

“Peter, one more pop-up,” I said, trying to help my junior varsity third baseman with his fielding.

My last throw of the day was always the same pitch, a sky hook that I started down low behind my back and catapulted straight up about fifty feet. Exactly as I started to unwind with all the power
I could muster, Sally walked up behind me to ask if it was time to get ice cream. I didn't know she was there until the ball in my hand crashed into her eye.

“Go get Mommy!”

I could not breathe on the way to the hospital. Sally was screaming, my wife was crying, and I could plainly see the stitches from the ball on the cheekbone of this girl who had a visual disability and had already had an operation on that eye.

“Tell me she's not going to lose her eye,” my wife pleaded with the emergency-room doctor.

“Let's see what the CAT scan shows.”

“I'm so sorry, Sally,” I repeated over and over as she lay motionless on the gurney, with a huge white ice pack covering her face. After the last of the tests, she started a breathy whisper: “Daddy?”

“Yes, pumpkin.”

“Can I still pitch?”

“We'll see.”

The doctor reappeared clutching some supersized X-rays. It was good news. Her glasses had somehow absorbed much of the initial force and distributed the impact; she'd escaped without a cracked skull and with just a bloody swollen eye, he explained as he put on an eye patch.