I'm Not Very Cool

When I was 6 I broke my father's heart.

Allow me to set the scene: 

Enter Kevin:

A slightly overweight, overly-precocious, smug-as-hell first grader  is sitting on his kitchen counter. You feel an unconscious urge to punch his annoying little face. It is unclear what he is doing, or why your fist remains divorced from his smug little face. One would suspect, upon reflection, that the mega-maniacal cogs of his puny little child brain are frantically searching for the best way to ruin the sometimes strained relationship he has with his father. Suddenly, inspiration hits.

Enter Father:

He is a long suffering man. His patience, and hair, worn thin by over half a decade of dealing with what is, in all likelihood  the single most annoying child in existence. His relation to the hateful creature on the kitchen counter is, aesthetically, doubtful but a brief confrontation reveals that they share a particular, and impossible to replicate, sense of self-righteous stubbornheadedness. He is holding a registration form for the coming year of child hockey. 


Father: Kevin, I have your hockey registration. Would you like to fill it out with me?


Kevin: Umm, sure.


Father: Kevin. You don't sound very excited. You want to play hockey this year right? ...right?


Kevin: I don't know, Dad. I think I would rather try bowling.


Enter 16 years of awkwardly trying to repair the damage caused by this decision.

An alternative dramatic recreation

To clarify, this is indeed a dramatization of one of the more embarrassing moments of my childhood and the one that most troubled my father. The time I quit hockey to try bowling.

It wasn't like I was ending a potential Art Ross worthy NHL career. I was a chubby, awkward, athletically stunted ham-sandwich on skates. I had no killer instinct, (my most vivid memory is being scared of playing a girls team from a nearby town because they were older and "mean") I didn't have a nose for goals, (I didn't score a single goal...) and I clearly didn't understand the game (I spent more time picking up other players and brushing snow off them than actually playing the game.)

I might have qualified for the Lady Byng, but everyone knows that trophy is for wusses.

In retrospect, all of those above attributes would certainly make it seem as though I was better suited to bowling than hockey, however, I was my father's first born son and heir to his hockey legacy. Choosing bowling was a real smack in the face to his hockey legacy.

My father was not a bowler. He was in the rodeo, he was a goalie/defenceman who spent more time slashing players than legitimately trying to prevent goals. In short, he was the kind of kid that would have beat me up on the regular.

It goes without saying that my complete inability to play hockey would have been a disappointment to my father.  My decision to quit it altogether in favor of bowling would have been a nearly insurmountable obstacle in the formation of a healthy father/son relationship. Going forward, the fact that girls do not like me (a story for another day), my bookishness. general status as a social pariah and  inclination for "back talk," would all combine with this seminal moment to create a perfect storm of confusion and lack of understanding between my Dad and me.

Why the confession? I forgot to get my Dad a Father's Day gift (to be honest I don't even know when Father's Day is) and I figure that showing sympathy, if not empathy, for what most have been the most frustrating moment of his life was a pretty good replacement.

Also, the Canucks are in the Stanley Cup Finals and, thanks to the undying patience of my Father, I have developed enough as a man to appreciate and celebrate this wonderful event.

It also doesn't hurt that I can still be a smug-as-hell know-it-all that needs a good face punching and sharing this kind of story helps to keep me (more)  humble.