In Argentina, most boys play football.
Mine sort of does.
He also ice skates.
I’m a modern dad, so that’s cool. Ziggy Stardust pops to mind; so do other things. But hey, I liked the flute as a kid, and my nine-year-old son likes the recorder and is pretty good at it.
When he was a toddler, I thought he’d grow up to be a skateboard and surf rat, spit and cuss.
He cuts up the rink, sort of. The intention is there, and he’s getting better. A good thing, I guess, is that he’s made a lot of girlfriends on the ice. They say, “Hey.” And he says, “Hey.” That’s pretty cool.
But it’s not stopping me from taking him surfing every day possible until the girls on the beach say, “Hey.”
Yeah, you can call me anti-ice skating for boys.
I’m not really so anti in my heart, but for me it’s hard to argue that ice skating comes close to surfing. I mean, getting air on a surfboard sure beats spinning in a circle on ice skates. A tube beats a crossed step forward or backward, and hitting the lip beats jumping on skates.
But if he does say, “Dad, figure skating is for me,” I’ll be rink side at every show even if my mind drifts to thoughts of waves stacked to the horizon that could carry my son into a limelight of pro or soul surfing, a pure, simple and, gulp, manly pursuit. I can’t believe that just came out. But it did. So there you have it. Take off your skates and paddle into the waves, or at least pull a grinder on the ice-rink railing in your skates. That’d be cool.