(Please excuse the quality of my drawing, it didn’t scan well.)
A few weeks ago we were swimming. My wife and children made it known that the day wasn’t going to be a success unless dad was in the pool. My ten year-old and I were standing on the edge of the pool beside the diving board when all of a sudden the board makes the characteristic sound of somebody springing off the end, “boiiinnngggg”. We both looked just in time to see a man complete one and a half flips through the air and make a perfect entry into the water. As the man surfaced, my son turned to me and said, “Dad, he looks like he’s the same age as you. Can you do that Dad?”
On most days, I’m quick enough to outthink my 10-year-old–this wasn’t most days. I could’ve done or should have done a number of things other than the thing I chose. Without a moment’s hesitation, I put my arm around my son, and said, “I can do that.” His eyes beamed. At that moment, my wife asked. “Do what?” Then she said the one thing that guaranteed that I would try and impress my son, “you can’t do that!” I can be told a lot of things. The one thing I can’t be told is that I can’t do something. I gave her my sunglasses–in return, she gave me the look. You know the look, the one that says, I thought I married somebody smarter than that.
There’s a gracefulness that happens when a tanned and toned athletic body glides through the air, seeming to levitate, suspending the laws of gravity, and making a graceful ripping sound as the hands cut through the surface of the water. Then there’s me. I visualized taking three steps, rising into the air, and beginning my somersault during the lift. Even the boiiinnnggg didn’t sound right as I left the board; it was more like the noise of someone playing the cello with a piece of celery. The nearby bathers recognized the sound, and leaned forward in anticipation. As I rose, two, perhaps three inches above the board, I began my tuck and roll. My son was pulling for me, my wife pulling him away from the site of the pending disaster.
