Name

I've been called by many different names in my life: Christopher, Chris, Dad, Hass, Mr. H. These are the standards. But, of course, there have been countless others. Kid, Jerk, Sir, Know-it-all, Dude, Twirp, Haas, House, Loser, and (quite often when answering the telephone) Ma'am. And now, after what came to pass this past week, I have added a new name to the collection.

Coach.

I am a football coach. Just to say those words elicits the image of my high school PE teacher who, when not making boys run around in tight pants knocking one another to the ground in preparation for the week's loss, liked to sit half-asleep at the far end of the football field each day while his squad of brutish half-wits terrorized the rest of us in the name of physical education. It seems it would be easy to hate a man such as that but to squint downfield and see him slouched over his metal chair with those ultra-short, double-button polyester shorts with eight fingers tucked tightly into the front of his waistband and his white tube socks pulled high you kinda just understood. We are all destined to take a certain post in life. And this was his.

And knowing this full well, I find myself joining his ranks. Football coach.

In all honesty, our similarities probably end immediately after the shared title. While his responsibilities were to get a collection of over-sized young men to run formations, make tackles, memorize plays and schemes, and make the other team pay a physical toll, I will be poised to get a handful of four and five year old boys to stop chasing butterflies and waving to their mommas.

In the place of cold, hard pigskin we will have squishy, foamy Nerf.

Rather than punishing our opponents by driving them mercilessly into the ground we will run around wildly - in hopes of an accurate stab at the other boys' dangling flags.

Penises beware.

I'm not certain I am qualified for such a task. I assume even the lowest ranks of the sport require a certain level of testosterone, grittiness, and USA-bred toughness. Just this past weekend I took my kids to an eight year-old's birthday party at one of those places filled to the brim with mammoth inflatables and (in this case) a monkey. I walked away from the festivities with a busted lip, a strained right forearm, a sprained ring finger, and ugly rug burns on the sides of both ankles. Not exactly the stuff of champions.

So as I plan for our first practice together I look ahead with a bit of apprehension. Hoping that I can somehow live up to, or at least grow into, this new name. If nothing else, at season's end I will walk away from this with a new pair of shorts and tube socks. Now if I could just find that chair.

Childish Adult (Dad)