Game, Set, Match
The young man squinted into the setting sun as he stood at the curb. Cars filtered past in the four lanes in front of him with varying degrees of urgency and recklessness. To his left and right travelers were awaiting their transportation, getting into vehicles, or greeting family and friends. He stretched again from the short flight from which he had just disembarked and rescanned the cars. His father should be here soon.
The son put down his two duffel bags but kept his tennis racket slung across his shoulders. His thoughts drifted to the game. He had begun playing recreationally again. About once a week he'd hit a few balls with a friend. It was his father who had originally introduced him to the game as a child. It seemed that as he grew up, his game grew with him, though he had never been able to win a solid set against his dad. Perhaps when they played during this trip he'd win; perhaps his weekly sessions had improved his serve, his footwork, and his offensive shots. Perhaps when he played his father the next morning, he would be able to walk off the court with a smile, patting his dad on the back, instead of the other way around.
Looking through the windshields of the passing vehicles, the son spotted his father's familiar form in the driver's seat of a white jeep. With a wave of his arm, the son captured his father's attention; he loaded up his bags and, after a brief hug and welcome, climbed into the passenger's seat. It was a two-hour drive to their destination. As they headed away from the airport they exchanged the usual updates. As expected, the father had his list of "shoulds" for the son: the attitudes that need to change, the worldview that needs to mature, the financial advice that needs to be followed. The son had become used to these lists over the years, especially during his time at college. He had concluded that his father would never have the son he really wanted and tried to keep that burden on his dad's shoulders, where it belonged. Tried, but rarely succeeded.
He had learned not to argue with his father. Doing so would only lead to frustration: a feeling of being at a crossroads, where to follow Dad's advice would be to let himself down, and to follow his own path would be to disappoint his father. Instead, the son evasively maneuvered the conversation towards positive memories.
"Hey Dad, do you remember when we were skiing in Breckenridge and Peter Andrews convinced us to take the double-black diamond? I broke a strap on my snowboard and you thought you were going to blow a knee!" The father laughed at the unexpected sentiment of his son and reminisced.
The father let go of his list and seemed to catch his son's spirit with his own : "Did you and your brother ever use that tree-house we had Jim Randall build for you guys as a Christmas present?"
"Sure, we used to shoot the BB guns from there, or play war, or lost boys. We put in that pulley so we could pull a milk-crate up and down, remember?" The father was slightly surprised to hear how thoroughly it had been used.
The son continued plucking the major scales of his memory, "I remember when I was little, like 8 or 10 years old, how every once in a while you'd bring me back a half-dollar coin when you got home from work. I always thought it was special."
"You liked that, eh?" said the father.
"Yeah. And how after a doctor's appointment when I got a shot sometimes Mom would bring me to your office or we'd have lunch together, the three of us. Those were good days, even though I'd gotten pricked at the doctor."
"You always wanted a chocolate-chip croissant when we went to a deli for lunch," added his dad.
"That's right! And I'd also want them on those rare occasions when you took me to work for the day. I don't know why I always wanted to go; probably the train ride and looking out your office window excited me. But there was something about seeing you during the day. Maybe I knew it didn't happen often, and the fact that it was rare made it desirable."
Amidst this deluge of positive sentimentality there was a part of the son that recognized that this wasn't the theme of his relationship with his father. The theme carried tones of disappointment, and chords of tension beneath the surface. It sang soft, whispering dirges of doubted love.
The son couldn't help but wonder when his father had started to see him as such an obligation. At what age had his father started trying to change who he was? When had his dad's attitude switched from caring about his son to simply caring for his son? The question saddened him. Grace was what he needed to show his father, not aloofness or bitterness. He knew that to reflect his natural reaction towards his dad would only make him more like his father. He didn't want that, but it didn't make a gracious attitude any easier to maintain.
The two eventually arrived at their destination. They drove down the long gravel driveway to the farmhouse where the family reunion was taking place. As he alit from the jeep the son saw his mother, his grandparents, and a few other extended family members that he recognized. Those he recognized, however, were far outnumbered by those he didn't: his grandfather's siblings were all here with their own families, and if he had met these relatives before he couldn't remember it.
Knowing he would only be at the reunion for two days, the son found it easier to enjoy the company of the relatives he knew than to try to form a rapport with those he didn't. He tended to gravitate towards where his father was, knowing his dad's presence would provide a comfortable context in which to interact with the unknown relatives. At the same time, he wished he could assert his independence from his father more physically; he wanted it both for his own sake and to communicate it to his father. The son seemed to bounce back and forth between wanting to not need his father and wanting to enjoy his presence. The evening passed as a mixture of repetitive introductions and time spent with familiar faces.
The next morning was hot: ninety degrees and sunny. The son and his father left the farm to go play tennis, knowing that their stamina would be challenged. The last time the son had played tennis against his father he had bested his father five sets to four. His father had been borrowing a racket, however, and clearly one couldn't really count that as a win. This morning would be an opportunity to genuinely overtake his father; an opportunity to prove his ability and to come of age in some sense. They were finally on even ground with their own equipment, and the son had been playing more often and better than he had in years.
The first serve was given and the first game progressed. The son found himself trailing, and soon the game was lost, as was the next, and the next. Frustration began to crowd out the young man's focus. Even though he was able to maintain a competitive presence in every game, he still felt inadequate. Even though he might take his father to deuce at every game, it was never good enough.
His father seemed to carry a parallel burden at times. "Damn! What is going on with me?!" his father would ask after hitting a ball long or wide. The son noticed that he believed his father; he believed that any points he might score weren't a result of his own abilities and efforts, but a result of his father's mistakes. It was as if messing up were the son's only "skill," and that any appearance to the contrary was due to a weakness in his opponent—rather than a strength in himself.
He noticed that even his life and all the things he hoped would count for something in his father's eyes didn't seem praiseworthy. They didn't elicit Dad's pride just as a point in tennis received no "Good job."
As these realizations emerged into the clear waters of his consciousness the son had to ask himself, Is this real? Is this what I really feel about him? I'd rather keep my mind in the positive memories but…it feels so accurate! This is a lot to hear myself saying! Will I be able to act graciously towards him?
The young man tried to reflect on his own accomplishments and character. Most people would describe him as educated, hard-working, creative, and a good friend. But if these things were true of him, they prompted no pats on the back or smiles of affection from his father.
The set ended and the son had lost six games to one. Will he ever be proud of me? he asked himself. Will I ever win?
As the second set began and carried on, the young man started to pull ahead. His frustrations, however, seemed stationary. Where's the satisfaction I thought would be here? Why do I still feel like I haven't earned respect? The struggle continued within the young man; as the little green ball flew back and forth over the net the son's inclinations jumped between wanting to win his father with love and wanting to distance himself from a man with whom he'd never feel accepted. The competing attitudes put forth as much effort towards domination as these two players did when scrambling after a tough shot.
The son increased his lead and won the second set six games to two. Though his father had won more games, they each had won a set. The son felt polarized emotions, like a magnet trying to flip over so that it can connect with another: though he came away having proven himself, he somehow had not gained anything or gotten closer to his dad.
"Very good game. Thank you. I enjoyed playing with you," his father said as they approached the net, his right hand extended for a handshake while his left wiped his brow.
"You're welcome." the son replied. He couldn't quite say "thank you" back to his father; he wasn't sure whether he was glad he had played or not.
"Some lessons would do you good. I don't know why you're so stubborn and don't just take some lessons."
Nothing's good enough, is it? the young man asked himself. As he walked in his father's footsteps towards the jeep, he knew that he would always love his father. As he climbed in he wondered if it would always be painful to do so.
to the fork in the road