Fathers

My own father has his shortcomings. Many of which I can be sure I inherited. Anytime I visited my father at work, the little old ladies chimed, "Oh, Butchie, that is your son! He looks just like you." My guess is that what we actually inherit from our parents goes beyond the physcal attributes. And yet, with those shortcomings, my father, along with my dear mother, was able to pull off four of the greatest feats known to man. He raised three sons and a daughter. Yes, we are those four great feats. Not because we are great in the way that Martin Luther King Jr. was great, but because looking back, we were a handful.
I have not ever been all that inclined to have children, or at least I've never felt the urgency to be a father. It scares me. I mean that. I really am scared of what I might do to a child-- countless dollars and hours of therapy. Maybe I'm selling myself short, I don't know. But in the three years of my marriage, I have often pushed away any thoughts of having a child. Fatherhood seems like a terribly frightening endeavor that of all the possible failures in life, it would be the grandest.
So much had I put away the thought of children that even in the presence of the cooing nephew or excited baby daughter of a friend, I reamined indifferent. Yes, I did enjoy my time with them, but it never left a lingering feeling of paternal urges. No matter how cute or energetic a baby was, I just didn't have that need...until a week ago.
This basketball season I joined the coaching staff of the Cascade Bruins. I've always loved basketball, both as wannabe player and an avid fan. Connecticut is, afterall, Huskyland. Our team played its first game of the seaon in front of our home crowd. I had never experienced basketball from this perspective before and I could sense the slightest hint of anxiety eventhough my responisbilities are minimal. Midway through the second quarter, one of our players, and one who is on my list of responsibility pulls up hobbling.
The player, to the point of tears, was clearly in pain. I stood there watching, along with the rest of the coaching staff, helpless. I can't speak for the other coaches, but I was quite concerned. I wanted to make sure that all would be well. I wanted the pain to cease. She had worked hard in practice and it seemed unfair to be injured so soon.
Talking with my wife after the game, I expressed the emotion I had experienced. That helplessness. That concern. With a glimmer in her eye, an uncontrollable grin, my wife cupped my face in her hands and whispered, "You're ready!" STOP. What? She doesn't mean ready for a kid does she? I sure hope not because I'm not ready--am I?
I've mulled it over--and over. I've chewed it. I've pondered it. I've done whatever I can think of with it. And now I think I for the first time understand what made my father and perhaps your father great. Concern for someone other than oneself. I might not be ready to have a kid, but if selflessness is the start, the race has at least begun.