As a dad, you dream of bonding moments with your kid—tossing a ball around in the backyard, teaching them how to kick a football, and being their first coach. I had all those dad dreams when I took my 6-year-old son, Ben, outside for a little father-son football session. What I didn’t dream of was how one very unfortunate kick would have me questioning my life choices.
It started off great. Ben was excited, bouncing around with his little football, and I was ready to show him the basics—how to line up a shot, aim for the goal, the usual dad-coaching stuff. He’s a fast learner, and after a few minutes, he was kicking the ball with surprising accuracy for his age. I was so proud. Maybe he had a future in soccer! Or, you know, at least in not tripping over the ball like he usually did.
But then, as I crouched down to give him some pointers, things took a painful turn. I told him, “Okay, Ben, give it your best shot!” And boy, did he.
In what can only be described as a perfectly timed, perfectly aimed accident, Ben winds up, kicks the ball with all his little might—and sends it flying straight into you know where. I didn’t even have time to react. One second, I was encouraging him, and the next, I was on the ground, clutching my… well, let’s just say future siblings were in question for a few minutes there.
Ben, of course, thought the whole thing was hilarious. As I lay there groaning, trying to remind myself that I’m supposed to be the grown-up, he’s standing over me, giggling like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. “Did I do it right, Dad?” he asked, through peals of laughter. I wanted to say, “No, buddy, this is definitely not how you do it,” but I was too busy breathing through the pain.
Eventually, I managed to stand up, giving Ben a thumbs-up while fighting back tears (the manly kind, obviously). “Good shot, bud,” I said, my voice about two octaves higher than normal.