SPLAT

I lifted the Nerf football out of the bucket of water. Soaking wet, it weighed at least five pounds. The surface of the football was a little roughed up, but that helped it soak up more water. It was perfect for what I had in mind.

It was late July. Summer vacation. My friends Jimmy and Glen had been hanging out for a couple of hours. We were all 12 years old, about to start seventh grade. It was super hot and we were bored to death. We had already scared off all of the birds from my back yard by shooting at them with our BB guns. Now Jimmy wanted to have a BB gun war, but he had the best gun and always won. Glen and I shot that down. Ha Ha. My house was on the corner of the intersection of two busy roads, and we were standing in my driveway. Cars passed by steadily, always slowing for the 4-way stop. Our boredom was about to be forgotten.

“I have an idea for the perfect prank,” I announced. “We’re gonna run a pass play here in the driveway and I’m going to ‘accidently’ overthrow the receiver and hit a car right in the windshield. Feel how heavy this football is. It’ll scare the crap out of em!”

“Ok. So how’s that perfect?” Jimmy asked. “We could get in trouble.”

“If they stop and get out, we just act like it was an accident and apologize,” I explained. “A soaking wet Nerf football ain’t gonna hurt their car. They’ll see it’s fine and just leave. Perfect.”

“Let’s do it!” yelled Glen.

“Cool. Glen, line up wide right and do a 10-yard crosser. I’ll throw it when you’re in the middle of the driveway,” I instructed. “Jimmy. Snap me the ball and pretend to block.”

“That’s all I get to do?” Jimmy whined.

“Yep. Timing is everything on this. Line up and get ready.”

Just then a humongous green station wagon came down the street. It was already starting to slow down for the stop sign as it approached my driveway.

“Down. Set. Hut! Hut!” I yelled.

Jimmy snapped the ball. For one of the only times in my life, the sun, the moon, and the stars lined up just right, and I executed a sports play to perfection. I dropped back seven steps and paused. Glen ran down the right side of the driveway and cut sharply across ten yards downfield. I launched that soaking wet Nerf football right as Glen made his cut. The pass was a perfect spiral about three feet over Glen’s head. It travelled past the end of the driveway into the road just as the humongous green station wagon was arriving. It landed with a terrible SPLAT right in the middle of the station wagon’s windshield. Water from the ball sprayed all over the place. The driver slammed on the brakes and the station wagon came to a stop. It was a thing of beauty.

As we stood there admiring our handiwork, the door of the station wagon opened and a very large older man with dark sunglasses and a cigar hanging out the side of his mouth climbed out. He was not happy at all.

“What in the world are you kids doing?” he screamed.

Glen immediately took off running up the street to safety. He was laughing maniacally all the way.

I stuck with our plan: “Hey, Mister. We’re really sorry. It was an accident. It was a really bad throw.”

“My car better not be messed up, boy,” he sneered. He took a couple of steps toward me.

I too abandoned the plan and took off running around the side of my house and hid in the bushes. As I turned the corner, I noticed Jimmy standing in the driveway, still pretending to block.

Once I got to the bushes, I could no longer see the action, but I could hear everything. Apparently, the man grabbed Jimmy by the arm and dragged him to our front door and rang the doorbell. My Mom answered.

“This your boy, Ma’am?” the man inquired.

“No, it isn’t. He’s my boy’s best friend. What happened?” she replied.

“They hit my car with their football and almost caused an accident. I could’ve been kill’t!” he said.

“It was Eric’s idea. He’s hiding right around the side of the house in the bushes,” Jimmy cried. Apparently, Jimmy forgot that snitches get stitches.

“Eric, you better get up here,” Mom called out. “Let go of Jimmy, please.”

The next thing I saw was Jimmy, running away as fast as he could. Without saying a word. Out of allies and not wanting Mom to have to deal with this man by herself, I stood up and trudged around the corner to face the music.

“I’m sorry Mister,” I said. “It was a stupid prank. It was my idea. It was just a Nerf football. I thought it would be funny. Nothing’s wrong with your car.”

“Well, let’s go see if that’s true or not,” he said. The three of us walked out to his car. It was wet, but otherwise intact.

Satisfied, he climbed back in and drove away.

“I heard the big splat all the way in the bedroom,” Mom said.

“It was a perfect throw, Mom. A touchdown all the way. Scared the crap out of him.”

“I’m glad you told the truth in the end,” she said with a big smile.

When I met my first wife she had twin sons. They were six years old at the time. The boys and I hit it off right away. Their biological father was not in the picture. He lived in another state. We hadn’t been together for very long when I realized that I could be a father to the twins. I was more sure about them than I was about their mother. In hindsight, ten years out from our divorce, I believe that she never really loved me. She recognized the father in me and wanted that for her boys. I have plenty of regrets. Becoming their father isn’t one of them.

Each of the twins called me this week. They are grown men approaching forty and though we are still close, we don’t talk all that often. They each called to tell me they had received word that their biological father had passed away. I wasn’t sure why each of them thought this would be important news for me. Maybe they just wanted to confirm that they still had a father. I reminded each of them that I was still around and that I still loved them. I don’t remember ever actually meeting their bio-Dad in person. The most vivid memory I have of him is from seeing home movies taken when the twins were very young. They were from Christmas morning, and everyone seemed very happy. Hearing them call him Daddy was painful. According to my ex-wife, he had issues with responsibility and with alcohol. I only have her side of the story. Whatever the reason behind it, his absence meant that I did not have to compete with him, and that was a good thing. In our conversations this week the boys sounded sad. Their sadness was caused not only by his loss but also by lost opportunity. Though there had been some attempts to reconnect in recent years, neither twin had a real relationship with him at all. Both were feeling some guilt, and now there will never be another chance.

The conversations with the twins this week have left me pondering what makes life productive and meaningful. What defines our legacy? What about those of us that waste the life they are given? I’m not judging the twin’s birth father at all. I don’t know enough about him to have a fair opinion. I have walked closely with my sons for over thirty years, and I know that my investment in them is more important than his DNA. Does that realization mean that my life has been productive and meaningful and that his life was a waste? Not at all. There was no contest between us; no one was declared the winner. The twins never compared us. He was simply there with them early on. Then he wasn’t. I came along later and things worked out.

Are children what makes life productive and meaningful? Is what we hand down to our children our measure as fathers? How much of me are my adult children carrying around? We are very different. They are all independent-minded, with different interests and pursuits. Each is following a unique path. I believe they are all kind and empathetic and choose their words carefully. Except for one son who has no filter and speaks whatever pops into his head. He wears his emotions on his sleeve, like I do. The rest hold things inside, like I do. Do they still listen to me? They listen but then make their own choices. All but two are followers of Jesus. There is work to do on that front.

My own father passed away recently at the ripe old age of 91. What do I carry from him? There are things he believed and emphasized to me that I agree with and there are other things I have rejected. We were not the same. Is he responsible for the man I have become? He is, at least, partially responsible. Most parents attempt to teach or instill values or indoctrinate their children with the knowledge and ideas they think are important. It is the duty of parents to prepare their children for adulthood the best way they can. Sometimes parents greatly benefit their children. Sometimes they do great harm. Every child’s identity is impacted by everything they are exposed to in their formative years. Each eventually decides who they are and what they believe. Parents all hope our best will live on.

My initial reaction when the twins shared their news was that they thought I might be upset. Now I realize I was wrong. They wanted me to know they were ok. They were trying to prevent me from becoming concerned. Selflessness is something the world needs more of. I like how they have turned out.