Saturday, January 31, 2004
Winning and losing as dads
By Russell King
“Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.” This quote–this motto of modern American manhood–attributed to Vince Lombardi, the legendary coach of the Green Bay Packers professional football team, is held as unassailable truth in our culture. Fathers pass it on to sons as if it is the Reader’s Digest condensed version of all the great wisdom uttered by the sages over the ages. I think it’s rubbish.
Unless you’re in a life-and-death struggle, winning means absolutely nothing. Worse than that, when winning is made the highest priority, most of life’s real pleasures are denied to us. I’ve watched Danny, Hannah, Logan and Rylee compete in soccer, baseball, basketball, football, gymnastics and karate, and one observation is confirmed at every single event: Those who know how to enjoy playing a game invariably earn higher returns on their investment of time and energy than those who focus on winning.
For the “win-aholics,” enjoyment is found only in victory. A loss brings frustration, resentment, disgust, anger or even tears--and often a combination of two or more of the above. Predictably, but sadly, the reactions of coaches and parents also depend on the score. A win brings smiles, warmth and expressions of pride. Too often, a loss brings frowns, criticism and even “consequences.” The dads involved in this scenario, as either coaches or fans, not only fail to see the damage they’re doing, they think they’re doing something positive. That's twisted.
Professional sports are lousy with examples of sick, sad win-aholics. A player will have an outstanding performance or set a record, but if the team losses, the player will say something like “It means nothing if we don’t win.” I find myself wondering whether they are really that stupid or shallow? Maybe they’re just so brainwashed by the “winning is everything” disease that they cannot hear how they sound. Or maybe the cultural pressure to buy into the sickness is so great that they hide their happiness, pride and satisfaction and adopt the “team” face.
I can recall a football game, when I was about 12, in which I made a absurd number of tackles and three interceptions, scored a touchdown and shut down the opposition’s leading scorer. We lost by 30 points. I was thrilled that I had played so much better than I usually did and thrilled that my dad was there to see it. When the coach heard me expressing this happiness, he went off the deep end, shouting at me about how inappropriate my emotion was after a loss. Apparently, he preferred that I be crestfallen, sad, even ashamed, because my team had lost.
I played a game I enjoyed. My performance matched my imagination and did so to the pleasure and pride of the one person I wanted most to please. I spent time with my friends. I felt part of a team. And I was “high” from pushing my muscles so hard for so long–what Robert Frost called “vernal heat.” With rewards such as these, the score was inconsequential.
The score is always inconsequential. Winning and losing are equally meaningless. I see it now watching my children play: The kids who know how to enjoy playing a game regardless of the outcome walk off the field, court or mat–win or lose--feeling good about themselves, their teammates and coaches, their competitors and the experience as a whole. And if, as dads, we’re going to use sports as either a metaphor or a training ground for adult life, the truth holds. Life is to be lived, not won. “He who desires to be first,” the scriptures say, “shall be last.”
Coach Vince was wrong. So was “Vince” van Gogh, who made the winning quip long before the coach. If we can’t see that, as dads, we’re just not looking hard enough. And our kids will be the losers for it.
By Russell King
“Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.” This quote–this motto of modern American manhood–attributed to Vince Lombardi, the legendary coach of the Green Bay Packers professional football team, is held as unassailable truth in our culture. Fathers pass it on to sons as if it is the Reader’s Digest condensed version of all the great wisdom uttered by the sages over the ages. I think it’s rubbish.
Unless you’re in a life-and-death struggle, winning means absolutely nothing. Worse than that, when winning is made the highest priority, most of life’s real pleasures are denied to us. I’ve watched Danny, Hannah, Logan and Rylee compete in soccer, baseball, basketball, football, gymnastics and karate, and one observation is confirmed at every single event: Those who know how to enjoy playing a game invariably earn higher returns on their investment of time and energy than those who focus on winning.
For the “win-aholics,” enjoyment is found only in victory. A loss brings frustration, resentment, disgust, anger or even tears--and often a combination of two or more of the above. Predictably, but sadly, the reactions of coaches and parents also depend on the score. A win brings smiles, warmth and expressions of pride. Too often, a loss brings frowns, criticism and even “consequences.” The dads involved in this scenario, as either coaches or fans, not only fail to see the damage they’re doing, they think they’re doing something positive. That's twisted.
Professional sports are lousy with examples of sick, sad win-aholics. A player will have an outstanding performance or set a record, but if the team losses, the player will say something like “It means nothing if we don’t win.” I find myself wondering whether they are really that stupid or shallow? Maybe they’re just so brainwashed by the “winning is everything” disease that they cannot hear how they sound. Or maybe the cultural pressure to buy into the sickness is so great that they hide their happiness, pride and satisfaction and adopt the “team” face.
I can recall a football game, when I was about 12, in which I made a absurd number of tackles and three interceptions, scored a touchdown and shut down the opposition’s leading scorer. We lost by 30 points. I was thrilled that I had played so much better than I usually did and thrilled that my dad was there to see it. When the coach heard me expressing this happiness, he went off the deep end, shouting at me about how inappropriate my emotion was after a loss. Apparently, he preferred that I be crestfallen, sad, even ashamed, because my team had lost.
I played a game I enjoyed. My performance matched my imagination and did so to the pleasure and pride of the one person I wanted most to please. I spent time with my friends. I felt part of a team. And I was “high” from pushing my muscles so hard for so long–what Robert Frost called “vernal heat.” With rewards such as these, the score was inconsequential.
The score is always inconsequential. Winning and losing are equally meaningless. I see it now watching my children play: The kids who know how to enjoy playing a game regardless of the outcome walk off the field, court or mat–win or lose--feeling good about themselves, their teammates and coaches, their competitors and the experience as a whole. And if, as dads, we’re going to use sports as either a metaphor or a training ground for adult life, the truth holds. Life is to be lived, not won. “He who desires to be first,” the scriptures say, “shall be last.”
Coach Vince was wrong. So was “Vince” van Gogh, who made the winning quip long before the coach. If we can’t see that, as dads, we’re just not looking hard enough. And our kids will be the losers for it.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Healing the American family
By Russell King
I am happy to report that my soldier-dad pen pal in Baghdad—Sergeant First Class David Rhein, of whom I have written before--will very soon be winging his way home. He has fulfilled his duty to his country, now he will address his duty to his family.
As we’ve conversed by letter, we’ve crossed the border of safe conversation into the danger zone of disagreement--expressing our opinions, concerns and fears for our nation. As a man of character often does, Sgt. Rhein offered his apologies if he had gone too far and given offense by his opinions.
When I replied, I felt as if I were writing not to a man I’ve never met, but to a fellow American, a friend and another father:
“Don’t be afraid of offending me by expressing your opinions in your letters. When you’re father to six children, you learn to accept a great diversity of opinion. I think the only thing that all six kids and I agree on is that Rhonda gives the world’s best hugs and kisses and makes the world’s best spaghetti sauce!
“Seriously: I think the American freedom I cherish most is the freedom to speak our minds, openly and honestly. I’ve learned over the years that very good, very intelligent, very patriotic people can disagree very strongly about a very large number of issues. Rest assured that you’ve earned my admiration and friendship, and no mere difference of opinion could ever take those things from you.
“We seem to be in a confused time in America about what freedom of expression means. There seem to be a great many Americans (or perhaps they are not so many, but simply more visible and more vocal) who conclude “If you disagree with me, you are unworthy of my respect.” Or you’re uneducated or stupid. Or you have poor morals or a weak character. One that I hear a lot, and which frightens me a lot, is: “If you disagree with the president, you must be unpatriotic.” When I think of what the logical extension of that position is, and what it could mean to America, I shiver with dread.
“The day when we are no longer able to discuss the issues and treat each other as men and women of honor is the day we cease to be Americans. It is the day we forsake our birthright as Americans.
“When I consider how many Americans have lived, worked sacrificed, fought and died to protect and enhance that “inalienable right,”—going all the way back to the Revolutionary War—the thought that we might throw it all away makes me ill. When I consider how many members of my own family are among that group—going all the way back to three of my ‘grandfathers’ who fought in the Revolutionary War—the thought that we might dishonor their legacy to us makes me angry.
“I think of America as a family. We may squabble, we may disagree, we may fight bitterly among ourselves, but we never quit loving and nurturing each other, and we never let our individual desires become more important than what is best for the family. Right now, it seems to me, that far too many of us are too willing to dishonor and disown members of our American family over differences of opinion—especially when it comes to politics and religion.”
Maybe healing the wounds in the American family is a job for American dads (and moms). It seems a timely task, because we revealed ourselves as split down the middle in the 2000 election, internal wounds have been inflicted on our unity by events since then, and now our leaders and would-be leaders seem determined to push us all further apart by campaigning on “us against them” platforms. Never mind that “them” is “us.”
As the scriptures taught us, and Abe Lincoln reminded us, a house divided against itself cannot stand. It is something, I think, worth pondering.
By Russell King
I am happy to report that my soldier-dad pen pal in Baghdad—Sergeant First Class David Rhein, of whom I have written before--will very soon be winging his way home. He has fulfilled his duty to his country, now he will address his duty to his family.
As we’ve conversed by letter, we’ve crossed the border of safe conversation into the danger zone of disagreement--expressing our opinions, concerns and fears for our nation. As a man of character often does, Sgt. Rhein offered his apologies if he had gone too far and given offense by his opinions.
When I replied, I felt as if I were writing not to a man I’ve never met, but to a fellow American, a friend and another father:
“Don’t be afraid of offending me by expressing your opinions in your letters. When you’re father to six children, you learn to accept a great diversity of opinion. I think the only thing that all six kids and I agree on is that Rhonda gives the world’s best hugs and kisses and makes the world’s best spaghetti sauce!
“Seriously: I think the American freedom I cherish most is the freedom to speak our minds, openly and honestly. I’ve learned over the years that very good, very intelligent, very patriotic people can disagree very strongly about a very large number of issues. Rest assured that you’ve earned my admiration and friendship, and no mere difference of opinion could ever take those things from you.
“We seem to be in a confused time in America about what freedom of expression means. There seem to be a great many Americans (or perhaps they are not so many, but simply more visible and more vocal) who conclude “If you disagree with me, you are unworthy of my respect.” Or you’re uneducated or stupid. Or you have poor morals or a weak character. One that I hear a lot, and which frightens me a lot, is: “If you disagree with the president, you must be unpatriotic.” When I think of what the logical extension of that position is, and what it could mean to America, I shiver with dread.
“The day when we are no longer able to discuss the issues and treat each other as men and women of honor is the day we cease to be Americans. It is the day we forsake our birthright as Americans.
“When I consider how many Americans have lived, worked sacrificed, fought and died to protect and enhance that “inalienable right,”—going all the way back to the Revolutionary War—the thought that we might throw it all away makes me ill. When I consider how many members of my own family are among that group—going all the way back to three of my ‘grandfathers’ who fought in the Revolutionary War—the thought that we might dishonor their legacy to us makes me angry.
“I think of America as a family. We may squabble, we may disagree, we may fight bitterly among ourselves, but we never quit loving and nurturing each other, and we never let our individual desires become more important than what is best for the family. Right now, it seems to me, that far too many of us are too willing to dishonor and disown members of our American family over differences of opinion—especially when it comes to politics and religion.”
Maybe healing the wounds in the American family is a job for American dads (and moms). It seems a timely task, because we revealed ourselves as split down the middle in the 2000 election, internal wounds have been inflicted on our unity by events since then, and now our leaders and would-be leaders seem determined to push us all further apart by campaigning on “us against them” platforms. Never mind that “them” is “us.”
As the scriptures taught us, and Abe Lincoln reminded us, a house divided against itself cannot stand. It is something, I think, worth pondering.
Sunday, January 11, 2004
Liar, liar, pants on fire
By Russell King
What's the main thing our children learn in school? Reading? Math? Nope. Lying. They learn to lie to themselves. They learn to quietly accept lies told them by grownups. They learn to get through the day by use of the lies, big and little, by which we all live.
Schools teach our children to lie by forcing them to play a game of make-believe. Let's pretend that there are certain things that everyone must know, and that both the questions and the answers about them have been fixed for all time. Let's pretend that what bores you is important. Let's pretend that what you're learning is what's really important in life. Let's pretend that your
intellect, value and future can be judged from how well you can play "Let's Pretend."
As a dad trying to teach his kids how to live honestly--with themselves and others--I don't appreciate the schools leading them astray.
We all do it, of course. We pretend that the tiny words at the bottom of TV commercials actually serve as legal disclaimers that protect us. We pretend that watching the evening news keeps us well informed. We pretend that our newspapers report to us without bias. The list goes on.
These days, everyone from the president on down is a get-tough school reformer, calling for the Three Ts: more toughness, more testing and more "tracking" and placement of students (separating the early, obedient achievers from their more free spirited peers). Trouble is, what they're calling for is bad for schools, bad for kids, bad for our communities. It's bad because their reform plans are built on political or economic goals, and not on how or why humans learn.
Plato insisted that if our education is to be successful, our intellect must be fueled by our emotions. Unless their emotions drive their learning, only bad things happen to the learner. If we think we can't learn, we won't. If we perceive the subject as irrelevant to our lives, we won't learn it. If the relationship between teacher and pupil is viewed as threatening, we'll learn only fear, resentment or surrender. If that sounds like re-heated progressive education, tough: That's the way it is.
As a dad, I think the purpose of our schools ought to be to actually help prepare my children to make their ways through life. By "make their ways through life," I mean a heck of a lot more than simply being employable, or even financially successful. To do that, the schools are going to have start making learning relate to the real lives of my children.
Reformers like to jabber on about getting back to the fundamentals, by which they mean is some version of the Three Rs-- readin', writin' and 'rithmetic--plus a dose of computerese. The four I have in school now knew how to work a mouse and recite Robert Frost poetry before they started, so it's not like I think these subjects are unimportant. But when I look at them growing,
exploring and learning to live, it is impossible to ask "What's most important to their futures?" and answer "the Three Ts and Three Rs."
More importantly, they know it, too. My children look around and see a world with: madmen driving airliners into skyscrapers; acid rain, poison air and waning resources; children blown to bits in the name of God and for the sake of oil; hatred and bigotry thinly disguised as religion; neighbors of different colors who profess to love the same Prince of Peace but cannot bring themselves to worship under the same roof; and, at this--the richest moment in human history thus far--millions living in the street and tens of millions ravaged by disease and hunger. They see this and they know--when we say we're teaching the basics of life--that we are lying.
We, and our schools, should be so honest.
By Russell King
What's the main thing our children learn in school? Reading? Math? Nope. Lying. They learn to lie to themselves. They learn to quietly accept lies told them by grownups. They learn to get through the day by use of the lies, big and little, by which we all live.
Schools teach our children to lie by forcing them to play a game of make-believe. Let's pretend that there are certain things that everyone must know, and that both the questions and the answers about them have been fixed for all time. Let's pretend that what bores you is important. Let's pretend that what you're learning is what's really important in life. Let's pretend that your
intellect, value and future can be judged from how well you can play "Let's Pretend."
As a dad trying to teach his kids how to live honestly--with themselves and others--I don't appreciate the schools leading them astray.
We all do it, of course. We pretend that the tiny words at the bottom of TV commercials actually serve as legal disclaimers that protect us. We pretend that watching the evening news keeps us well informed. We pretend that our newspapers report to us without bias. The list goes on.
These days, everyone from the president on down is a get-tough school reformer, calling for the Three Ts: more toughness, more testing and more "tracking" and placement of students (separating the early, obedient achievers from their more free spirited peers). Trouble is, what they're calling for is bad for schools, bad for kids, bad for our communities. It's bad because their reform plans are built on political or economic goals, and not on how or why humans learn.
Plato insisted that if our education is to be successful, our intellect must be fueled by our emotions. Unless their emotions drive their learning, only bad things happen to the learner. If we think we can't learn, we won't. If we perceive the subject as irrelevant to our lives, we won't learn it. If the relationship between teacher and pupil is viewed as threatening, we'll learn only fear, resentment or surrender. If that sounds like re-heated progressive education, tough: That's the way it is.
As a dad, I think the purpose of our schools ought to be to actually help prepare my children to make their ways through life. By "make their ways through life," I mean a heck of a lot more than simply being employable, or even financially successful. To do that, the schools are going to have start making learning relate to the real lives of my children.
Reformers like to jabber on about getting back to the fundamentals, by which they mean is some version of the Three Rs-- readin', writin' and 'rithmetic--plus a dose of computerese. The four I have in school now knew how to work a mouse and recite Robert Frost poetry before they started, so it's not like I think these subjects are unimportant. But when I look at them growing,
exploring and learning to live, it is impossible to ask "What's most important to their futures?" and answer "the Three Ts and Three Rs."
More importantly, they know it, too. My children look around and see a world with: madmen driving airliners into skyscrapers; acid rain, poison air and waning resources; children blown to bits in the name of God and for the sake of oil; hatred and bigotry thinly disguised as religion; neighbors of different colors who profess to love the same Prince of Peace but cannot bring themselves to worship under the same roof; and, at this--the richest moment in human history thus far--millions living in the street and tens of millions ravaged by disease and hunger. They see this and they know--when we say we're teaching the basics of life--that we are lying.
We, and our schools, should be so honest.
Sunday, January 04, 2004
The gift of a glimpse to a bygone day
By Russell King
Maybe it’s the new year, maybe it’s the early sunsets of winter, maybe it’s the gray whiskers that are starting to appear in my beard, but something has me reflecting on the past a little more than usual. I keep reliving a day, more than 10 years ago, when Danny and I went fishing and he presented me with a gift as unexpected as it was precious.
Although we fished that day, angling with a 5-year-old is something other than what we normally think of as fishing, and what I remember most is the fresh perspective Danny brought to the outing. That perspective proved to be a gift to his dad.
While my eyes were on the big things–horizons and weed lines and whatnot–Danny’s eyes were on the little things. A few white pond lily blooms were still on the water. A Canada goose tucked back in the weeds, watched us without moving. A turtle, soon for his resting spot in the bottom muck, caught a the last rays of sun on the end of a crumbling, half-submerged, long-forgotten wooden pier. Danny saw them all first and pointed them out to me in a voice pitched with excitement.
Right down to the dragonfly, whirligig beetle and waterboatman, Danny’s eyes caught every tiny movement, every quiet little drama played out on a stage too small to get my attention. Every time he directed me to something new, I had to laugh at myself and marvel at him. Slowly, the realization came to me that being a grownup wasn’t exactly all it was cracked up to be, that life loses something in the translation of years, and that my pint-sized interpreter was giving me a glimpse into a world I’d left behind.
This loss is one of the highest prices we pay for growing up. I’m not at all sure it’s a fair trade. I’m unwilling to give up the small things, the quiet things, for the big concerns of adulthood. Not entirely.
Getting them back, even if for just a while, is one of the nicer byproducts of fatherhood. It’s one of the really good things that no one ever tells you about before you have kids. (Unless you have no kids, in which case I just did.)
Having a child gives you back part of your childhood, or puts you back in touch with that part of you that is still a child, depending on how far removed you feel from your younger self.
When Danny pointed out how cool it was to lean over the side of the boat, peer down into the water, follow the stems of lily pads down to the lake bottom and watch the bluegills scoot from shadow to shadow through the shafts of sunlight, I was taken back more than 35 years.
I was on my belly on a pier on Higgins Lake in Michigan, my head hanging near the water in the slotted shadows of the wooden planks. I was watching schools of yellow perch swarm into the shallows and devour spent Mayflies.
I was entirely unaware of unjustifiable wars, unpalatable politicians, crooked bankers, nuclear warheads and drug pushers. I was unaware of anything that could or would stand in the way of my dreams coming true. The world was a safe, inviting, perfectly wonderful place created specifically for my enjoyment. All the choices now made were still an array of possibilities.
Danny and I didn’t catch many fish that day, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Out there, in the sun, on the water, my son showed me how to feel the tug of innocence on my metaphorical fishing line. You don’t often catch trophies of that sort. You can’t hang them on the wall, so you hold them in your heart and haul them out to help fend off the cold of ice and snow, to help get you through to spring.
By Russell King
Maybe it’s the new year, maybe it’s the early sunsets of winter, maybe it’s the gray whiskers that are starting to appear in my beard, but something has me reflecting on the past a little more than usual. I keep reliving a day, more than 10 years ago, when Danny and I went fishing and he presented me with a gift as unexpected as it was precious.
Although we fished that day, angling with a 5-year-old is something other than what we normally think of as fishing, and what I remember most is the fresh perspective Danny brought to the outing. That perspective proved to be a gift to his dad.
While my eyes were on the big things–horizons and weed lines and whatnot–Danny’s eyes were on the little things. A few white pond lily blooms were still on the water. A Canada goose tucked back in the weeds, watched us without moving. A turtle, soon for his resting spot in the bottom muck, caught a the last rays of sun on the end of a crumbling, half-submerged, long-forgotten wooden pier. Danny saw them all first and pointed them out to me in a voice pitched with excitement.
Right down to the dragonfly, whirligig beetle and waterboatman, Danny’s eyes caught every tiny movement, every quiet little drama played out on a stage too small to get my attention. Every time he directed me to something new, I had to laugh at myself and marvel at him. Slowly, the realization came to me that being a grownup wasn’t exactly all it was cracked up to be, that life loses something in the translation of years, and that my pint-sized interpreter was giving me a glimpse into a world I’d left behind.
This loss is one of the highest prices we pay for growing up. I’m not at all sure it’s a fair trade. I’m unwilling to give up the small things, the quiet things, for the big concerns of adulthood. Not entirely.
Getting them back, even if for just a while, is one of the nicer byproducts of fatherhood. It’s one of the really good things that no one ever tells you about before you have kids. (Unless you have no kids, in which case I just did.)
Having a child gives you back part of your childhood, or puts you back in touch with that part of you that is still a child, depending on how far removed you feel from your younger self.
When Danny pointed out how cool it was to lean over the side of the boat, peer down into the water, follow the stems of lily pads down to the lake bottom and watch the bluegills scoot from shadow to shadow through the shafts of sunlight, I was taken back more than 35 years.
I was on my belly on a pier on Higgins Lake in Michigan, my head hanging near the water in the slotted shadows of the wooden planks. I was watching schools of yellow perch swarm into the shallows and devour spent Mayflies.
I was entirely unaware of unjustifiable wars, unpalatable politicians, crooked bankers, nuclear warheads and drug pushers. I was unaware of anything that could or would stand in the way of my dreams coming true. The world was a safe, inviting, perfectly wonderful place created specifically for my enjoyment. All the choices now made were still an array of possibilities.
Danny and I didn’t catch many fish that day, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Out there, in the sun, on the water, my son showed me how to feel the tug of innocence on my metaphorical fishing line. You don’t often catch trophies of that sort. You can’t hang them on the wall, so you hold them in your heart and haul them out to help fend off the cold of ice and snow, to help get you through to spring.
