You, Too, Dad
Brian Armer
Ben knew his dad was home before he saw the truck. The basketball was still beneath the porch bench, exactly where he had left it three weeks earlier. Usually, Dad would have taken it out by now and called through the kitchen window that somebody needed to come defend the driveway.
When the company closed their branch, Nathan came home with a cardboard box and told his wife, Laura, he would find something else. He meant it. Every morning, he got dressed, made coffee, and worked through applications at the kitchen table. At first, he told her about each one. After a while, he waited until she asked.
He still drove Ben to school and listened when Laura talked about her day. But when Ben brought out the ball, Nathan would glance at the unfinished application on his screen. “Give me a little longer, buddy.” Ben would shoot alone until the light went.
One Thursday, Nathan found the school tryout notice beneath a math worksheet. He held it up when Ben came into the kitchen. “You didn't tell me these were next week.” His son opened the refrigerator and stood looking inside. “I don't think I'm going.”
Nathan knew how badly he wanted to. Ben had spent the summer working on his left hand, counting every clean finish against the driveway hoop. “What's changed?” he asked. Ben closed the refrigerator. “There are guys who are better. What if I go through all of it and they don't pick me?”
Nathan looked at the application on his screen. He had been trying to spare his family the disappointment of another rejection, keeping his answers short until he had something good to report. Now his son was standing across the kitchen, waiting for a reason to take a chance. Nathan couldn't promise him a place on the team. He couldn't promise himself a job, either.
“That would hurt,” he said. “But you deserve to find out what you can do.” Ben traced a seam in the countertop with his thumb. Nathan shut the laptop. “Come on. Let's see that left hand.”
The first pass hit Nathan in the chest because he was still looking up at the hoop. Ben laughed before he could stop himself. “You ready, old man?” Nathan tucked the ball under his arm. “That's a brave thing to say to your ride.” For the first time in weeks, Laura heard them arguing cheerfully about whether the driveway crack counted as out of bounds.
They played until Nathan's shirt stuck to his back. Ben missed shots he knew he could make, and Dad made him take them again. When Nathan bent over with his hands on his knees, Ben gave him exactly the same encouragement. “One more. You told me.” Nathan groaned, stood up, and asked for the ball.
The applications were still waiting the next morning. Nathan worked on them after dropping Ben at school, then called a former coworker he had been putting off calling. That evening, he met his son in the driveway. Neither of them was suddenly fearless. They were getting better at showing up with the nerves still there.
On Monday afternoon, an email arrived while Nathan was checking a job listing. A hiring manager wanted to meet him on Wednesday. He read the invitation twice before carrying his laptop to Laura. She put down the dish towel and leaned against his shoulder to read it. “An interview,” she said, smiling. Nathan nodded. This time, he let himself smile, too.
Ben came home to find Dad ironing a shirt. “You get a job?” Nathan shook his head. “An interview. First step.” Ben looked at the shirt, then at the sneakers beside his own basketball shoes by the door. “Mine's tomorrow.” Nathan set the iron upright. “I know. I'm coming.”
Outside the school gym, Ben stopped with one hand on the door. Through the glass, they could hear a whistle and the sharp squeak of shoes. Nathan stood beside him, wearing the jacket he had laid out for Wednesday. “You nervous?” Ben asked. “About tomorrow? Absolutely.” His son let out a breath. “Me, too.”
Nathan squeezed his shoulder. “Go let them see you play.” Ben pushed open the door, then turned back. “You, too, Dad.” Nathan watched him jog toward the court. When Ben looked over once more, his dad was already in the bleachers.
Who helps you take the next step when your confidence takes a hit? Bring prepared Zombie Infusion skin spray into your after-court care before heading home to your family. Tomorrow still has room for you.