Carson Park

Frederic is playing soccer this Fall. He was in tackle football last year. He had a bad experience with the coach, who yelled at the kids a lot, and swore at them twice. This bothered Frederic. I tried to explain to him that football is a more intense sport than say, baseball, so the coaches have to be more commanding with their advice. It was the language that irritated him. The coach said, "you guys need to shit or get off the pot," and "get your heads out of your asses." I didn't hear either him say this to the kids, but I see Frederic's point. He was eight. He's never heard me talk like that. I really wanted him to continue with football. I thought it was good for him. He's a big kid, and it helped him focus some of his energy in a positive way. He played both offense and defense. Aside from the coach, he liked the sport. But he insisted on soccer this year. The team is 2-1-1 as of this morning. They played a good game, despite only having seven people show up.

When my kids splay sports, I try to help out as much as I can. I've been an assistant coach for baseball for five seasons, and was the head coach for Lily's only Pee Wee year. Since I travel so much, it's hard to make the full commitment to running the team. And I don't have a "sports-like mind" or personality. I'm good at helping out, not being the leader.

Soccer practice is twice a week--Mondays and Fridays--for an hour each day. I've missed most of the Monday practices, but I've been to all but one of the Friday sessions (date night with Cyndi at Kevin Smith). We practice at a field called Carson Park. This is a park of my youth. I didn't know it was called Carson Park when I was a kid. It was simply "the park near Tom Bray's house."

Carson Park is the place where we would go and hang out if we were at Tom's. I smoked my first cigarette there. It was just me and Tom. We were in fifth grade, and I was over there after school. Tom was already smoking on a regular basis back then, but I was only a second-hand smoker. Both of my parents smoked at the time, and most every parent in the neighborhood and every relative of mine smoked too. But it was made very clear to us that even though our parents smoked, we should abstain. "Do as I say, not as I do" was the mantra.

Peer pressure is a very real thing, obviously. I knew I shouldn't have done it, but when Tom and I sat on the play set at Carson Park, I didn't really even think twice. He pulled out the Lucky Strikes from his coat pocket, tapped two out, and handed one to me. Tom lit his first, and then moved the lighter over to me. I took a drag and inhaled, just like I had seen everyone else, including Tom, do. They made it look so natural and easy. I proceeded to choke, cough, choke, and cough.

Tom laughed. But he also gave me some advice. "That happened to me too, when I first started. The coughing goes away. You just have to keep doing it."

So I did. And the whole time, my head was spinning, and my stomach turned. I was queasy. Not just because of the smoke, but I knew I was disobeying my parents. I was a pretty honest kid (until I got to high school), and if I did something wrong, I most often confessed. My mom likes to say that they always knew when something was wrong with me. My nervous stomach was my constant confessor.

Tom and I smoked a couple of more cigarettes at Carson Park before I had to go. My parents came to get me in our beige station wagon. I was so freaked out that they would find out I was smoking, that I ran to the corner of the street to meet them. I didn't want them to see the park. I feared seeing the scene of the crime would clue them into everything I was doing.

"Why aren't you at Tom's house?" my dad asked.

"They were getting ready to eat dinner," I lied, "so I figured I would meet you down here."

Excuse accepted.

As we drove home, no one said a word. I think, since my parents smoked, they didn't smell the evidence. We didn't live very far away from Tom's, but as we drove, my head began to pound, and my stomach continued to turn. With each throb, bang, bang, bang, bang, and with each gurgle, swish, swoosh, swish, swoosh, I was sure my parents heard everything. I tried taking deep breaths to calm down, but it didn't help. I decided to lay down on the seat (I think this was long before seat belts were required). Mistake #1.

"What's wrong?" my mother asked.

"Nothing," I said. "I've got a headache. Too much playing, I guess."

I saw my dad move the rear view mirror and look at me through it. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Busted. I couldn't look back at him. I closed my eyes. "Yeah," I said slowly. Mistake #2

My mother reached over. "Let me feel your head." I sat up and she put her hand on my head. "You don't feel warm," she said. "Lean toward me." My parents were known to forgo the thermometer and use "the kiss test." They often placed their lips upon our foreheads as a measure for whether or not we had temperatures. As my mother did this, she breathed in through her nostrils. "You smell like smoke," she said, looking over at my father. Mistake #3.

"Were you smoking?" he asked? "Don't lie to me."

"Not me, Dad," I said, leaning back in the seat. "Tom was smoking. I must smell because of that."

"Don't lie to me," he repeated. "Were you smoking?"

I looked at my mother and back at my dad. "Yes," I said quietly. "But I didn't really like it though. I feel sick from it."

"You know I don't like it when you lie," my dad said.

I have the same rule in my house that my parents did: You'll get in less trouble if you tell the truth." Frederic's mastered this rule. Lily, not so much.

"Am I in trouble?" I asked.

My dad looked at my mother and she at him. When my brothers and I misbehaved, it was very clear that we'd get punished. Sometimes severely. Leniency did not seem to be in their vocabulary--rightfully so.

"You think you're gonna be sick?" my dad asked.

"Probably," I said. I was sweating at this point; from everything.

"I've told you before to stay away from the cigarettes, and I mean it. Stay away from the cigarettes."

"Okay," I said. We pulled into our driveway and my dad parked the car.

"And don't lie to us. Understand?"

I nodded. When I got out of the car, I puked. Three times. I went inside the house, and went to bed. I slept all through the night, missing dinner and everything. Lesson learned.

We did other things at Carson Park. We talked with girls there. We kissed some girls there. We hung out at the swing set and talked--just us guys. I smoked pot there for the first time too.

Now my son practices soccer there; very surreal. Every time we drive past Tom's old house, and every time I see the play set, I imagine my old self. I remember everything. I sometimes expect to see me as a child, sitting on a swing, feeling the wind in my hair, dreaming about the future, and wondering what I'll be like when I'm old.