Tales from the Dad Side

by Steve Doocy

  “We’ll see.”

  The doctor reappeared clutching some supersized X-rays. It was good news. Her glasses had somehow absorbed much of the initial force and distributed the impact; she’d escaped without a cracked skull and with just a bloody swollen eye, he explained as he put on an eye patch.

  “She’s one lucky girl.”

  Heading home from the emergency room, I insisted we detour to the Dairy Queen. This one time only, I was willing to spring for any menu item regardless of price. Banana Split, Peanut Butter Parfait, you name it. I was trying to buy my way out from under a ton of guilt. She asked for a green Mister Misty, a refreshing and economical selection.

  Her elementary-school chums, especially the boys, marveled at her black eye for weeks. We told her to say, “You should see the other guy.”

  One week later she was out of her eye patch and standing in the pitcher’s circle. It was the last inning of the last game, just as I’d promised. She’d practiced with her eye patched, but her depth perception was way off and she’d gotten only half of her pitches across the plate.

  “Sally, hold it,” I said, marching out to the circle for the second time in my coaching career. Putting a hand on each shoulder, I repeated the advice my catcher had given me years earlier in our town World Series.

  “Throw strikes.”

  “I will, Daddy.”

  And then, like a maestro conducting his last orchestra, I raised my voice to the infield and said, “Ladies…in the immortal words of Robert Frost…let’s kick some butt.”

  A howl went up, and it was game on. At the beginning of the season Sally could not catch the ball, and now, amazingly, she was our closing reliever. She threw the ball slowly and steadily, but mainly slowly. Between pitches she’d methodically find a good spot on the rubber, adjust her hair, then her hat, and then grip the ball exactly how she wanted it. Her routine was taking an excruciatingly long time. After about twenty minutes, with only one out, I could hear a parent complaining, “Brianna’s going to miss her birthday party at one.”

  At the same time the teams for the next game were already there waiting to take the field, but they couldn’t, because Sally was still pitching. I looked back at the stands to see some parents were giving me the take-her-out, let’s-get-this-over-with look. But I was the coach, and this was why I had volunteered. I had invested 150 thankless hours over three months in their children; the least they could do was wait for mine.

  The longest inning of my life was fifty-six minutes.

  “Strike three, batter out!”

  A cheer went up, and I walked out and picked her up. Coming in at the absolute end of the season and then successfully retiring the side, Sally was our family’s version of Rudy.

  “Can I pitch next year?” she asked.

  “Why not?”

  Sally decided that winter that she was done with sports, and spent more time at competitive dance, although she would eventually join the swim team, where as a freshman she swam on the varsity team that went to the state finals. I would never wear the coach T-shirt again, which freed up a lot of my time, yet it was surprisingly sad. I would miss the kids presenting me a coach gift at the end of the season like an oversized autographed ball with all of their names and a gift certificate to a restaurant that served hard liquor. But more than that I’d miss the time goofing around with my kids, doing things with them that would be our secrets from Mom, like the time my son entertained the bench by taking out his cup and using it as an oxygen mask (try explaining to the doctor why he had a case of jock itch on his sideburns).

  It all ended that June afternoon after Sally’s triumphant pitching debut. I was throwing the bat bag in the back of my car when a parent who was parked next to us said, “So, Coach, you finished in fifth place. How’s it feel?”

  That was easy.

  “It feels…like first.”

  10

  Work

  Take Mom’s Spy to Work Day

  Each year an estimated 20 million children tag along with their parents, who spend a full day pretending they have lots to do when in reality if the kid weren’t there they’d spend slabs of free time sucking down coffee over by the copier with their office spouse or minimizing solitaire whenever a supervisor walked into their pod.

  “Why’s your home page Overstock.com, Daddy?”

  A longtime supporter of this day of exploration, I always felt bad for children whose parents had unconventional jobs. What if their mother was a “lady of the evening”? What would their Take Your Child to Work Day be like?

  “Kids, say hello to Mommy’s boss, Slickback.”

  “Hi, Mr. Slickback. You have a nice Cadillac!”

  Just like Mr. Slickback, I have an unconventional job. I don’t work regular hours or in a regular office. I sit on a television sound stage for hours at a time as I pray that the high definition isn’t revealing that I cut myself that morning, causing a single drop of blood to park itself on the collar of my wrinkle-free Brooks Brothers dress shirt. Cronkite never had to worry about HD; he could sit on camera with half a gallon of gravy on his tie and nobody noticed.

  My children have all begged me to take them to work even though my wake-up time is 3:27 A.M. I know many other parents who also get up at 3:27 A.M., but that is just to pee.

  My kids go because they never know when one of their idols will wind up on our show. During fourth grade my daughter Mary made the trip into New York City to interview Britney Spears, back when Mary and Britney were both still wearing underpants.

  Peter was in high school when he demanded to go the day movie star Carmen Electra arrived, and although I’m not sure exactly how it happened, before she left, she’d promised Peter that she’d be his date for the junior prom. Watching Entertainment Tonight a month before the big date, we discovered that Carmen had gone off and married one of her many part-time husbands. Peter then made an emergency plan B to secure a mere mortal high school girl for a date, because we had at that time a crazy house rule that your prom date could not be married.

  “But, Dad,” he begged for a dispensation. “So what if she’s married? It’s Carmen Electra.”

  On the verge of saying, “Okay, but just this one time,” I glanced over at my wife, who was giving me the look. I’d seen it before, in particular after an interview with actress Linda Evans. That morning my wife and children were at home watching me chat live on network television with Miss Evans about her Dynasty days and whatever product she was promoting. My wife noticed something unspoken, and shared: “Kids, I think Linda Evans is flirting with your father!”

  In fact she was not flirting with me, she was simply being friendly, and I was in return simply trying to be a good host and to make her feel comfortable, so I’d laugh hysterically at everything she said.

  “Wait a minute,” my wife announced to our stunned children. “Your father is flirting with her!”

  No child should have to hear that over cold cereal. They watched the rest of the interview in slack-jawed silence. When the segment was done and a commercial started, suddenly my wife and children had no idea of the immediate whereabouts of Linda Evans or me.

  “Are you getting a divorce?” Mary, the middle child, inquired. My wife didn’t answer. Six-year-old Sally burst into tears as she wondered if she’d just witnessed the final moments of our family thanks to some small talk with Krystle Carrington.

  “Kids, say hello to your new mommy.”

  Mary joined Sally’s crying jag. A lot of their friends had parents who split up, but it was usually over the landscaper, and certainly was never televised.

  “Mommy,” Peter wondered, “do you think Linda Evans has a swimming pool?”

  Both girls stopped crying; Sally looked up midsniffle. “Do you think she does?”

  Mary, whose television in her room was always tuned to E! News Daily, was also suddenly interested in a potential Hollywood branch to the family tree; she immediately saw a connection to a famous romance-novel hunk turned fake-butter
salesman. “Mommy, would that make Fabio my stepfather?”

  “You mean Yanni, and the answer is no. Show’s over. We’re going to school.”

  “Do you think Linda Evans would drive us to school?” Peter asked as the SUV door slammed the end to that conversation.

  My wife learned the hard way that children are starstruck, especially when a celebrity may be coming to live at your house. And with my job I’ve sat down for many a thorough three-minute discussion with an endless trail of A-, B-, C-, and D-list stars selling their books, movies, TV shows, and other stuff, including ointments about which I never had the heart to ask where they were applied. Many former celebrities who’ve been away from the spotlight for a while leverage their fame on behalf of pharmaceutical companies making things like bladder control remedies and incontinence cures, and those guests we interview on a special plastic couch, for obvious reasons.

  Our youngest, Sally, who went to work with me this past year, has never been that interested in the stars or glamour; she had a simple reason for wanting to go: “You let me have a Coke at four A.M.”

  There is a little-talked-about dark side to Take Your Child to Work Day: your kids are exposed to your coworkers. This is an actual transcript of a conversation I had with a colleague about my son.

  “He’s six five. How tall is your wife?”

  “Five eight.”

  “You’re only about six one,” my office pal says. “How tall is the milkman?”

  As a father four inches shorter than his twenty-one-year-old son, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that line of questioning. This inquisitor I would later freeze out at the coffeepot. My wife is a saint, and insinuating that my missus had slept with the milkman was way over the line. She has done many things over the years, but she has never been an easy broad who’d disrobe for dairy products.

  Now T-bones or snow tires, that’s another matter.

  I must sign off for now—Linda Evans may be calling me on the phone upstairs.

  11

  Male Call

  Things Only a Dad Can Teach a Boy

  There are three things that a boy best learns from his father:

  How to pee standing up

  How to tie a tie without hanging himself

  How to shave his face without losing a nostril

  Before our son, Peter, was born we’d purchased everything we’d need for his first years of life, including a baby potty with twin giraffes, one on each side of the pot, which acted as handles that the child would grab to steady himself as he turned to sit down to do his business. We parked the giraffes right next to the real man-sized toilet in our downstairs bathroom.

  One day when I was alone in the giraffe room washing my face, my almost two-year-old son wandered in, dropped trou, and stood there bare bottomed, waiting. This could be a baby-book moment, the first time he’d stand and deliver.

  Thirty seconds went by but nothing happened. He was clearly wondering how to prime the pump when he mentally opened the floodgates and peed directly on the newly installed Laura Ashley wallpaper, completely missing the giraffes.

  After Peter become the boy wizard I thought my job as the official standing-up-to-potty instructor was complete, but I was wrong. Two years later, three-year-old Mary, who was told she could not attend a preschool until she was potty trained, announced she was thirty seconds away from being toilet trained.

  “Come here!”

  Opening the door, I saw her standing over the giraffe toilet, then in its third year of service, her pants at the ankles. She smiled as she screwed up her face like she was squeezing something out, but nothing happened. We waited. And waited some more. Then she remembered a small detail about how her brother did it, and she grabbed her belly button, and within seconds she was standing there soaking her shoes.

  “Good job, Mary,” my wife enthused, relieved that she hadn’t hit the yellowed wallpaper. Toilet training was easier than necktie tying.

  “Over, under, around, and through” is something that I’ve shown my son dozens of times, and despite being an honors student at one of America’s best universities, he can’t do it. I’m still tying his ties. Before he leaves for a semester I’ll knot up half a dozen of my favorites that he’ll wear for a season and then return with various gravy and salsa spots.

  My final dad-only chore was the most dangerous because when it came to teaching him how to shave I was initially worried that he’d cut off an important face part. “Has anybody seen my left dimple? It was here a minute ago.”

  This was an area I’d been an expert in for decades. By my midteen years I had grown whiskers on my cheeks, and the no-man’s-land under my nose perpetually appeared to be dirty. Throw in my bushy blond sideburns, and I looked like a backup singer for ABBA.

  “Jim, show him how to shave,” my mother instructed my father at least three dozen times before he summoned me to the bathroom. My dad set a can of Barbasol on the sink, turned the water up hot, loaded a palm full of foam, and slathered it on his face. Finally he picked up his razor, the kind they simply don’t make anymore—it weighed half a pound, and twisting the handle opened the top like a drawbridge. That was how you’d install a standard double-sided razor blade, the same killer my mother always warned us our neighbors would hide in candied apples on Halloween, which would rip our guts apart and cause a slow painful death unless our parents first inspected our treats.

  “I like to start up here,” my father said, pulling at his right sideburn, then cutting the first swath of stubble.

  Back then my father was a bit of a fashion plate, with rakish sideburns that went with his groovy seventies hairdo. I thought they were Engelbert Humperdinckish, but not long ago my children saw a photo from that era and observed, “Check out Grandpa’s mutton-chops!”

  I memorized the scraping sequence because I would be next. While I’d seen him do it hundreds of times, now I noticed how far he bent his nose over to the left so that he could get really close to the right of the nose, how he pulled the loose skin adjacent to his Adam’s apple from one side to the other. Less than ninety seconds after he started he had whacked off everything that once grew on his face. At that moment I watched him rinse off the foam to reveal that he was bleeding from half a dozen new gouges. It was less personal hygiene and more a blood donation.

  “Hand me that toilet paper, Stephen.”

  I can honestly say I don’t remember ever seeing my dad leave the bathroom without at least one bit of dangling tissue paper used to clot and stop the blood, only to be yanked off later, which would start the bleeding all over again.

  “Okay, Stephen, you’re up.”

  The water was scalding, the mirror foggy. I pushed the button on the shaving cream, not realizing that more stuff comes out than you could possibly ever use. I applied a clownishly thick layer of shaving cream, and I thought to myself this was what Santa would look like if instead of whiskers, his beard was Cool Whip.

  “Be careful, it’s sharp,” my dad said, handing me his shaver. I felt like such a man following exactly his sequence of strokes. I went from under my right ear down to my jaw and along the way lopped off the head of a zit, which announced its location with a scary stream of O-negative.

  “Welcome to the club,” the elder bleeder said to his son. I smiled a big grin that showed my teeth were positively yellow compared with the ultrabright white foam on my face. By the end of my virgin shave, I had a random series of scrapes and future scars. Detainees leave Gitmo with fewer contusions.

  “Here, slap on a little of this” was the last thing I heard before my two palms damp with Mennen aftershave sent electric jolts of sheer pain into the subsurface of my face. I looked into the mirror expecting to see the hairdo of a Lhasa apso that had electrodes placed on its private regions, but from the outside you could not see my pain.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” my dad asked as he opened the medicine chest to replace his razor, which was clearly on loan from the bloodmobile. I was officially a
shaver; the torch had been passed. Okay, it was a bloody, scary torch, but nonetheless a milestone in my life. I sat down on the edge of the bathtub to relish my achievement, which was helpful because I was also a little light-headed from the massive loss of blood.

  My father told my mom to buy me my own razor, either because he didn’t want to share or was afraid he’d catch a crazy dose of hep C from my time hanging around down on the docks. Try as she might, she could not locate the same kind of razor my father had, probably because it was banned under the Geneva Conventions.

  Instead, she picked up something that was new to the market, the disposable plastic razor. One difference between the little blue Bic razors and my father’s hand-held Cuisinart was that the Bics never cut my face. Not the first time, nor the second, not on the third or ninth. That’s when I deduced that perhaps my father’s daily shrapnel wounds were from a world-class rusty blade. To this day I cannot remember him ever changing the blades in his razor, not once, which could explain why he always emerged from the bathroom looking like an extra from a Quentin Tarantino film.

  Given my personal history, when it was time to teach my son how to shave, I bought him an electric shaver. I’d never had one of them, but I always liked the Norelco Christmas commercials and the way that jolly old elf shaved the snowy hills around the North Pole. Besides, after what had happened to me as a child, I didn’t want a single divot on that adorable face of my stubbly boy. I had been worried about him using electricity so close to the sink, but as it turned out it was completely battery operated and with an adjustable pivoting head for a close and comfortable shave at an amazing 13,000 rpm. He could shave for three weeks and still have plenty of battery power to give Sasquatch a “Yul Brynner” with the pop-up trimmer.

  Even though I had never used an electric, I had plenty of advice, because a lack of knowledge has never stopped a father from lecturing.

  “Rub it all over your face wherever there’s a whisker.” To this day he has never emerged from the shavatorium looking like his grandfather, with an incurable case of toilet-paper pox.