The Large Man Chronicles

By luck and strange coincidence, I found myself home for a decent stretch of time over the last few weeks. Because I was home, and because I’m a swell guy, I told the little missus that she should stay home and chill, and that I would deliver my daughter to soccer practice. I would stay and watch, and then return her home after said practice was over. My friend Bridget turned me on to an outstanding author, Nelson DeMille, so I could watch a little practice, read a little Plum Island, and feel like I was a contributor to more than just our modest bank account. Reluctantly, the little missus agreed. She was reluctant because she knows that no matter how minor and insignificant the task is, I can find a way to screw it up. No foreshadowing here, just a point of fact.

My daughter is 11; she’s playing in what is known as Instructional League soccer, sponsored by our local YMCA. For the most part the Y does a great job. The fall soccer league is strictly recreational, they don’t keep score (Communism??) so there are no win/loss records, the teams are picked to be even…the purpose is simply to get the kids in our community to be active.

Saturdays at the soccer field are very cool. Try to imagine a kaleidoscope of colored jerseys dancing across the Kelly green grass under the canopy of a crystal blue autumn sky. There are probably 6 or 7 fields on the grounds where they play. It’s a sensory overload of color, sound, and aroma in a sea of fun competition. It’s a positive vibe.

So on this slightly chilly Thursday evening my little 11-year-old angel and I hop into the Hyundai (`cause that’s how we roll) and head to practice. I ask her about her day, she says it was “fine” and nothing else…she get’s that from her mother. I ask her to tell me about something cool that happened today, she said nothing cool happened. I said, “TELL ME SOMETHING YOU SELFISH BRAT! I’M TRYING TO MAKE CONVERSATION! LET’S BOND! DADDY’S HOME! THROW AN F-ING BONE HERE!

Okay, I didn’t really say that, but I was thinking that. I wanted a Ward Cleaver or Jim Anderson moment from Leave It to Beaver or Father Knows Best. When I explained this to my little angel, she said “Who the hell is Ward Cleaver?”

Okay, she didn’t really say that, but she was probably thinking that. She just looked at me with that telling stare that says, “I know you’re trying to make a point, but I just don’t get it. And if I did, I really wouldn’t care”…she get’s that from her mother too. So I just patted her on her head, told her that I loved her because she was such an independent spirit, and that I knew she would be great at anything she ever did because of that special gift. What are you gonna do?

We get to the soccer field, and away she goes, water bottle in hand, ponytail dancing side to side as she jogs over to her team. She moves with a bounce, her carriage expresses joy. My little angel is not athletic, but she likes to play – whatever you’re playing. She will never be the first kid picked on a team, but she doesn’t care. She just likes to play. I’m pretty sure it’s the social part that she likes – the camaraderie. Whatever her motivation is, I am so grateful for it. I love to play too.

Last year she played soccer for the first time, and the experience was not positive. Her coach “was a dick”. She confided those exact words to me when at the end of last year’s season I asked her if she wanted to play next year.

“Ya know Daddy, I know that Coach Jimmy was a real dick, but none of the other coaches were dicks. Most of the other coaches were pretty nice. So just because Coach Jimmy was a dick, I shouldn’t let that stop me from playing”

“I think that’s a good way to look at it Honey. Do you know what you’re saying when you say dick?” I asked.

“A dick is like a jerk, right?”

“Well, sort of” I said. “But when most people use the word dick, they’re talking about a penis.”

She stared at me, shocked. “Oh Daddy, I didn’t know it meant that.”

“It’s OK, you didn’t know. You’re not in trouble” I consoled.

“You don’t understand. I told Mrs. Peterson the same thing at school today. Am I gonna be in trouble?”

“No Honey. I’m sure Mrs. Peterson has heard about what a dick…I mean jerk… Coach Jimmy was from the other kids too. Don’t worry about it. Just don’t use that word anymore.”

That pretty much sums up the first year of soccer. My wife and I hoped we would get a better coach for year two. We did.

This year, we have coaches Rob, and Jen. I don’t really know Rob at all, but I swear he is the most positive person I have ever been around. He’s kind of a small guy; athletic in his build, very active in his motion. I just know him from watching him work with these 5^th and 6^th grade girls. God bless this dude, he connects with them – and you can see that they love him. Way cool. If he wasn’t’ so positive, and great with my kid, I’m sure I wouldn’t like him. I usually don’t like people who remind me of all the things I’m not. That’s just me.

Coach Jen is our neighbor from across the street, one of the first people we met when we moved to town. She’s a teacher, actually, she is such a respected teacher, she is now a Teacher Coach. So she teaches teachers. If she carried a business card, Respected Educator would be her title. She’s the kind of person that is going to be good at anything she does – she just seems to have a drive. I wouldn’t call her quiet, but she’s not one to waste words either. You would never know these things about her unless you were watching. She’ll tell you things about herself if you ask, but you have to ask.

In most cases, I wouldn’t like Jen either, for the same reasons I wouldn’t like Rob…my stats don’t really hold up well against virtuous overacheivers. But Jen is good peeps. She is great with my kids, a good friend to my family, and she’s hot. Hot allows me to overlook things that would normally piss me off. Things like being a great human being…(what the hell is that all about?) Jen (and her husband too) are the kind of people who you could call with a plea for help at 3:00 AM. You could make that call without any fear, shame or hesitation. I can’t give higher praise than that.

Jen is also a runner, and by that, I’m not saying that she is a person who runs, I’m saying that she is a runner. She races just about every weekend, and she doesn’t show up to compete, she shows up to win. Had I ever considered these things before this chronicle, I might not have let my rather non-athletic kid play on Jen’s team for fear of neighborhood friction. It would have been the bonehead move of the century, but I’m a bonehead, so…

Jen and her husband have two daughters who are also very athletic, and as pretty as their Mom. The younger child is on the team as well – she’s a year younger than my angel, and they are good friends. Jen’s kid is almost like a coach on the field. She is an excellent passer, and knows how to set up her teammates for a score. The game seems a little slower to her than it does to my daughter and most of the other kids on the field. There is no panic in this kid. When the ball is at her feet, she is looking at other players, when the ball is at the other kid’s feet; they’re looking at the ball.

So I’m reading my book, taking in the sights and sounds every few minutes. I’m watching my daughter listen to Coach Rob and Coach Jen, and I’m amazed at the intensity to which she is focused on what they’re telling her. They are coaching, and she is listening, she asks questions, and you can almost see the wheels turning in her head as she tries to learn the game. I could have been overcome with emotion at the sight, if I wasn’t such a hard ass and therefore immune to such things. Maybe I will have an athlete in my home after all, I’m thinking as I watch it all unfold.

At this point, I’m quite full of Large Man pride – the dream wheels are turning. I watch her fall back to a defensive role, she looks down at the chalk lines on the field to establish her position, and as soon as she raises her head, BAM! From about 6 feet away, one of the strongest legs on the team launches the neon yellow ball right into her face. Her head jerked back, and she falls right on her 6^th grade ass. I’m almost 100 yard away and I heard the impact.

Oh well…It was fun while it lasted, I’m thinking. She’s done.

This kid freaks out for weeks at the thought of an upcoming immunization shot. She simply doesn’t do pain. I know that this ball to the kisser hurt like hell. She likes to play, but pain is not part of the plan.

I jump out of my chair and start making my way to the scene, and I see her look up. She’s looking for me. She finds me, sees that I’m on my way, and she waves me off. I’m now close enough to see the tears forming, she turns to Jen and says something that I can’t hear, and then the two of them walk over to the first aid kit. Jen get’s an ice pack and some gauze or tissue, and applies them to the kid’s face. My baby has a bloody nose, her braces cut into her lip a little, and a bruise is forming on the bridge of her nose. Coach Jen says something, and then they high-five. Alex sits, Jen goes back to the rest of the team, they both give me the “thumbs up”, Alex drops her makeshift mask looks at the blood, and then she looks at me and smiles.

HOLY SHIT! Who is this kid?

Ten minutes later, she is up and back on the field participating in the drills. Blood on her shirt, a smile on her face, and I swear a whole new level of aggressiveness. It was amazing.

This is what comes with encouragement from good coaches. I think it can also come with the spirit of competition, and the love of a game. Maybe it’s the love of hanging out with your peers and friends, and not wanting to let them down.

I’m not sure I know what it is. I know what it isn’t though. My daughter didn’t pick herself back up off the ground, wipe away the tears, and suck it up because she was afraid she was going to get yelled at by some dick – and I don’t mean jerk.

 She did it because she believes that Rob and Jen believe in her, and they want her to be the best she can be. Not better than anyone else, just her best. She did it because she wants to play. She did it because of the joy that comes with playing a game.

My little angel climbed into the car at the end of practice and looked at me with the biggest smile her face could hold and said, “DID YOU SEE THAT? That practice was FRIGGIN AWESOME!”

Yeah, I saw it sweetie. I was watching. It was friggin awesome.

Please make any comments you wish in the comment section, or if you’re nature is more private, send me and email at thelargeman@gmail.com … I’m not just interested in your thoughts, I crave them…likes, dislikes, or similar experiences. Thanks for reading!

I Chronicle tonight from the touristy, but very nice, Saint John Ale House in Saint John, New Brunswick. The Large Man is abroad. By “abroad”, I don’t mean that I’ve painted up my lips, smeared some rouge, and donned a pretty dress with a nice pair of f-me pumps. I simply mean that I have traveled to another country.

Tonight, thanks to a strategic seating by the fetching young hostess named Shauna (black hair and blue eyes – is there anything prettier?), I am in the care of Stephanie – a smoldering beauty dressed in black and denim. Steph doesn’t talk much, and she seems immune to my piercing blue eyes and aw shucks smile… Stephanie is a great waitress – a pro. I can spot cool from a mile away, and this young woman is cool. Every single one of you reading this tale tonight would like her. The ladies would like her because she is pretty, but not begging us to look at her. The men would like her simply because she is pretty…but we’re easy like that. The group would appreciate her because we would immediately notice that everybody else seems a little frustrated with the slow service…if you’re at Stephanie’s table, this is not an issue.

A sassy little IPA from a small brewery in Moncton, New Brunswick is the crowbar that will pry out tonight’s Large Man story. The Pump House Brewery beers are really good; if you’re ever in the Maritime Provinces, give them a try.

Something to Think About:

Fathers, be good to your daughters.

I think John Mayer is a tool, but there are few songs that touch me more than Daughters. It says so much, and I see the point every day.

I’ll share (briefly) what I saw yesterday at the Buffalo International Airport…

HER… Palomino blonde, blue eyes the size of a full moon, an athletic but very feminine build that made me almost consider breaking one of the 2 most passionately followed Large Man rules*.

She is sitting alone, and talking on her cell phone to somebody she loves. She is speaking in an eastern European language that I obviously can’t understand or identify.  She smiles and laughs all through the conversation. She is a pretty picture. Her language is percussive and lyrical…her smile is genuine, and her heart is full. This young beautiful girl has all the promise of a sunrise. She makes me smile.

Then he walks up…

HIM… Died black hair, a black pair of these new “skinny” jeans that I’m seeing more and more of…on dudes! Black denim blazer over black and white striped tee-shirt, with a white scarf wrapped around his neck…its fucking August, and this punk is wearing a scarf. He looked like that Adam Lambert dude from American Idol. It works for Adam, I really like him – his new song is great. This guy however, just looked like an idiot. She looked athletic and feminine, he just looked feminine. I really fought back an urge to punch him in his vagina. It wasn’t because of how he looked, it was because of how he behaved. He didn’t make me smile.

I looked at the two of them and I thought of the two angels that sit on each of my shoulders when I’m faced with a moral dilemma. She was the white angel wanting me to do good things…he was the dark angel wanting me to do evil. I mostly interact with these angels when I’m alone in a hotel room looking at pay-per-view options – She wants me to watch Marley and Me. He wants me to watch Girls Gone Wild – Panama City. So they both have important roles in the Large Man world; it mostly depends on how many beers I’ve had when it comes down to whose guidance I follow.

Unfortunately for the Adam Lambert poseur, it’s 9:30 AM and I have had nothing to drink. The fatherly instincts in me lean towards protecting a pretty girl more so than trying to understand and relate to the dark, misunderstood, brooding young man.  Please understand that I understand that both of these kids need a little love. Some guidance from someone who has taken a few trips around the sun could go a long way here. But this dude is just mean. How in the world did this guy worm his way into her world?

He doesn’t talk to her, he just barks at her. Unless “asshole” is a language or accent, he spoke with none. I’m guessing he’s the boyfriend. I’m also guessing that he’s thinking the same thing that everybody else in the Gate 6 area is thinking. What in the HELL is this girl doing with this jerk. This would explain his aggressive posture toward her. He doesn’t deserve the kindness that she continues to show, and she’s eventually going to figure it out and move on. But he has her now. You could see her body language completely change as he walked up and sat down next to her – she went from abundant sunshine, to cloudy with a chance of tears. He wasn’t a physical threat, and as sad as it may seem, the emotional power he had over this girl was more disturbing than if he were a physical threat.

I had to walk away. I decided it was best to leave before I did or said something I would later regret.  I have a tendency to poke at snakes. This was none of my business. However, because I am who I am, as I got up I kinda stared at the guy and shook my head. He made eye contact, and thought about something, but as most bullies do when confronted, he let the thought pass. I can assure you that this young buck could have whipped my old ass like it was a hobby. I knew it, but he didn’t. That’s how bullies are; they’re only strong when someone else is weak.

I don’t have any idea how these two opposites got together. There is no certainty that I’m even right about the dynamic between these two kids.  But I’ll bet I’m close. They could be fine, but just in case, please heed these words…

Fathers, be good to your daughters. Tell them you love them every day. Tell your little girls why you love them. Tell them that they are so special that they never have to put up with shit from any other man, woman, or child. Tell them how smart they are, and how much you admire their strength. Tell your daughters how proud you are to be their Dad. Tell them these things so they don’t have to reconcile their Daddy issues with guys that look like Adam Lambert. Tell them they can avoid pointless relationships with guys who wear white scarves when it’s fucking August.

I think if we tell our daughters these things it will make a difference.

That’s all…just something to think about.

Thanks for reading…one more beer, and I gotta go.

The Large Man

*Rule # 1 – I don’t wear black t-shirts

Rule # 2 – I never ogle real life girls under the age of 25 (by “real life” I mean girls that are not on TV or in movies…you get a pass for that)

Rule #1 is because of my fair complexion and my disdain for the marketing practices of the Jack Daniels Corporation. Rule # 2 is because I have too many friends that have daughters in their teens and twenties, and it’s completely cootiefied for a 50 something year old man to ogle real girls who are that young. There are so many beautiful women in their 40s and 50s that I can objectify, it just seems classier to do that…I can maintain my scoundrel and hound status, but stay classy. It’s important to be classy.  This is my choice, my rule, and my rationalization, and you do not have to agree. No matter how wrong you may be.

You’re catching the Large Man on a good day. There is very little mischief dancing around in my head, limited angst, and remorse is nowhere to be found. I’m feeling blessed by a good life, a mostly healthy family, friends that at least act like they like me, and an outlet to express it all.

Yesterday, after years of consideration, shopping, studying, and comparing, and most importantly; convincing my wife, I upgraded to a flat screen TV for our living room. Yesterday was a great day.

On Friday, when I decided to finally pull the trigger, I asked my over sensitive 9-year-old boy to go on an adventure with me, and I told him what we were doing. Just to make it more fun, I told him that it was a secret, and that we couldn’t tell the girls (my wife, and our over sensitive 11-year-old daughter). His ice blue eyes lit up more brightly than my most recent birthday cake. Later that evening, he mentioned to his mother and our neighbors around our Friday night camp fire/happy hour/jam session  (at least 3 times) that “me and my Dad are  having a Man Day tomorrow. We’re getting my hair cut, and having lunch.” Then he would turn to me and give me a huge smile and a wink that required the use of his entire body. Nod of the head…dip of the shoulder, and then a jerk back. My over sensitive 9-year-old son has not exactly developed his poker face yet.

So we rise and shine early Saturday for the quest…an hour in one direction to get a TV stand that my little Mrs. fell in like with a few weeks ago; then 35 miles in another direction (we’re a bit remote) to get the TV, lunch and a haircut. I found the TV I wanted, a nice little 32” job, it had the specs I desired, and a price my wife was willing to let me pay. I showed it to Poker Face and said, “I think it’s this one, Jack. What do you think?”

Jack looks at the set, looks at me, then the shoulders drop…and the head looks at the floor. “Really? I wasn’t thinking of something THAT small.”

Hmmm…he’s only 9 years old, and he dips potato chips in ketchup, but my spawn makes a good point. It really was small.

Now I left the house with a very clearly defined budget, because the TV is not the only upgrade taking place in our 100-year-old home. But Jack, our baby, is disappointed. A disappointed Jack is the key to finding extra money in any budget situation at the Large Man headquarters. He is Mommy’s boy.  Now I’m excited!

“Well Jack”, I replied, “what size TV were you thinking we should get?”

He takes a look around the show room. Very carefully considers about 3 or 4 of the … ahh…larger models that were available. Go big, or go home – that’s my boy! I love it!

Unfortunately, a 50” TV wouldn’t fit anywhere in our house, and certainly not in our living room. I directed him a little further to the left of the display wall, and he found a nicely appointed, very conservative, and highly regarded 37” model. “How ‘bout this one?” he asks.

For only (roughly) a car payment size chunk of change more, we could upgrade our upgrade to a larger, higher defininitioner, more better TV. OK, I’m thinking…this could work. A compromise has been struck! A deal was done. We get a bigger better TV, and it was Jack’s idea, so nobody’s gonna be in trouble. The college money used to pay for it won’t be missed for at least 7 or 8 more years, so everybody will be happy. Right?

I perspired most of the 30 minute drive home while my 9-year-old, over sensitive, non-poker face wearing, freshly sheared, mama’s boy, wiggled in his seat with absolute delight. He wore my hand out with high fives. “Thank goodness I was with you”, he exclaimed. “You almost made a huge mistake!”

Yeah…let’s hope so.

Everything’s gonna be alright, I thought.

…and it was. It was all fine.  It was fine,  because I came in and made it clear that I was the bread winner in this house, and if I wanted to provide nice things for my family, that’s the way it was, and I wasn’t gonna take any shit over it. Well…it was sorta like that. What I actually said was, “Honey, when we looked at the 32”, it just seemed too small. I hope you don’t mind, Jack really wanted something a little bigger…I know we agreed, but this is a better fit for us”. That’s what I actually said, but she knew what I really meant.

I followed up my forceful proclamation with a request for assistance, “because you’re better at putting this stuff together than I am”. I’m thinking if I seem helpless and vulnerable, my punishment might be lighter…it’s hard to beat a pathetic, worthless man when he’s down. Also, she actually is better at putting stuff together than I am – she uses the directions.

So an hour later, we have the old TV out, the new TV hooked up, and Sponge Bob looks better and more defined than ever before. It was a nice upgrade. The cherry on the sundae came when Poker Face headed off to bed, he asked the girls (my wife, and daughter) if they “had anything to say” to him before he left. They responded with only a quizzical look.

“How ‘bout a Thank You for saving the day.  What if Dad had bought that little TV?”  He told them. They thanked him, and sent him to bed feeling like he just cured athlete’s foot.

All said, it was a great day… one on one time with my boy, the joy of a new gadget, and an upgrade. Other than an ice-cold beer to celebrate the day, what more could a person ask for?

I’m having a Smutty Nose I.P.A. right now, so I ask for nothing.

Thanks for reading, there will be more Chronicles on upgrades over the next few days.

Big love,

The Large Man