Lunch with Dad

Papillon.

At one point during our conversation, my dad marveled at how I much I enjoy heading out with the seemingly sole purpose of running from here to there and back again. Because, although my dad was an amazing athlete when he was younger, he turned his talents to baseball and soccer, and then when he was older to tennis and golf.  As he likes to say, “I could chase a ball forever, but to just run over there? Nah. Not for me.” 

You know, for most of my life I wasn’t active at all, forget athletic.  I was gently reminded of this over lunch.  “This from the girl who didn’t like to sweat,” Dad said, referring to my excitement over my guaranteed entry to New York.  A lot of my memories of my dad are of him sweaty.  I know that sounds weird, but he was a phys ed teacher and a coach before he retired, and he’d come home from coaching sweaty.  Over the summer break, he’d work with his best friend at a botanical nursery, building and watering and hauling all day, so he’d come home sweaty.  And, on the weekends, he’d play tennis, or golf, or plant our garden or build a brick path or spackle the living room — he’d always be sweaty.  His favorite visors have a ring of salt along the crown. 

But, Dad has a point.  I was never coordinated, always a bookworm.  I mean, I rode my bike around and would play in the ocean, but you wouldn’t find me in the road playing street hockey or in the backyard playing wiffle ball.   When we played softball & volleyball in gym, I was the girl afraid the ball would hit me in the face, not because I was vain, but because I was a wimp.

To go from sweat-avoidant and wimpy to proud of my post-run funk and ability to run through inclement weather, side stitches, and numbing boredom is enough transformation to make even my dad shake his head in wonder. (Although, it’s not like that kind of about-face is out of character: my second year of college took me from bitter resentment of the school’s foreign language requirement to genuinely excited at the prospect of study abroad in an immersion program.)

But should he really be surprised?  I grew up knowing my dad was an athlete.  I listened raptly as he told us stories about the championship teams he played on in college.  Mom would bring us to watch him coach soccer, baseball, volleyball or play in local tennis tournaments.  I have memories of him teaching me how to swing a bat, a golf club, throw a ball, do a push-up.  So, you see, it’s no mystery to me that I managed to find myself, in my 30’s, finally won over by the particular sweetness of a sport diligently practiced.  You see, it’s already in my blood.