Remember playing wall ball as a kid? Wall ball is a playground game involving a bunch of kids, a concrete wall, and a tennis ball. Everyone spreads out, one kid throws the ball as hard as they can against the wall, and the object is to catch the rebound without bobbling it. If you fail to catch it cleanly, you have to drop it and run for your life toward the wall before another kid picks it up and pegs the wall first. If you touch the wall before the throw, you're safe. If the throw beats you there...
When I played as a kid, the consequences of "getting out" were higher than simply waiting until the game ended to get back in. Because we didn't call it wall ball. We called it "buns up". If you got out playing buns up, you had to assume the position against the wall, hands up and touching the brick with your back-side facing the rest of the kids. For the reward bestowed upon the kid who got you out was to stand at an agreeable distance and try to drill you as hard as possible in the butt cheeks. Hence the "buns" portion of buns up. The hit rate varied depending on who was on the firing squad, but there was always a chance they would miss, leaving you awash with relief and the rejuvenation to get back to it. The tradeoff we made for potentially sore bottoms was to rejoin the game immediately instead of having to wait until everyone got out.
I last played buns up in 8th grade and hadn't thought about it since then, but recently at the little league field where my son plays, I noticed a group of players throwing a tennis ball against the outside of the bathroom structure next to the snack shack. A pang of nostalgia rang out as I watched for a minute before it was time to leave. They weren't playing the buns-up version, but it still looked just as fun. As we walked behind the kids to get to the parking lot, I expected my son to put his bat bag aside and join in. But he just kept walking beside me, like an uninterested adult who just wanted to avoid getting trampled by a ball-chaser or winged by an errant bounce.
When my son was born, I assigned a series of expectations based on my childhood. Some of these were typical fatherly things like teaching him to ride a bike, but others were based solely on my existing interests in the hopes we'd bond over them as he got older. But year after year, when he hit an age where I thought he would start liking the things I did...he didn't. This, of course, is how it's supposed to be. When you have kids your job is to be their parent, not their friend. In theory, it's dead simple, but I underestimated the level of subtlety involved in trying to apply it. Remembering that discipline is more important than them liking me, for example, is easier to do than recognizing when I'm pushing them toward certain hobbies or activities because those are the things I like. A case can be made that the familiarity of those things is the gravitational force behind that behavior, but I'm beginning to discover my reasoning is not so pure.
Up until 11th grade, playing baseball was my biggest source of childhood enjoyment. I loved spending hours practicing alone in the driveway. I loved the camaraderie with my teammates who eventually became my friends. I loved to compete. That changed in high school and I fell out of love with the game, but I always knew if I had a son, as soon as he turned five we'd be signing him up for tee ball and that journey would begin for him. I did have a son, and he did turn five, and he did play tee ball. But the same love for the game didn't survive in the genetic cauldron, and though he's played every season since then, to him it's just something to do. He has fun, don't get me wrong, but unlike me at his age, he doesn't ask to play catch every day after school.
As we drove away from the field, leaving the gaggle of boys to their game of wall ball, I finally understood why his lack of passion made me sad. Up until this moment, I convinced myself the sadness was pity for him missing out on some of the best times I had as a kid. But that's a lie I told myself to avoid what was really happening. I've been trying to relive my childhood. I talk a big game about how incredible adulthood is, but I have vividly fond memories of my childhood, too. I think it's natural to want the best of what I had for my kids, but it becomes a bit gross if they're not as into it and I still push them to be. The things I loved may not be the things he loves, and any disappointment over that is a red flag that my priorities are in the wrong place.
I wish it didn't take me a decade to realize what I was doing. If I could sit my younger self down, I would tell him this: "Your kids will not be you. They're not supposed to be you. Show them the things you liked as a kid, but only show them. You're supposed to keep an eye out for what they like and provide the best possible avenue for them to pursue it. If you only pay attention to whether or not they're into the same things you were, you'll be blind to all the things that make them who they are." I think every parent wants to do a better job than their parents, even if they had a glowing childhood. Looking back, I never felt like I was being coerced into doing something just because they enjoyed it as a kid. Unfortunately, it looks like my son isn't so lucky. All I can do now is continue to recognize when I'm inadvertently siphoning his childhood to rekindle mine and fight the urge to influence him for the wrong reasons.