I snap pictures of kids’ Star Wars T-shirts in the store and declare that I wish they came in my size. I seek out ways to startle and pester my girls. I pretend I’m the Great Brown Hope of NASCAR when I drive on the Interstate (but I never speed).
Being a dad of girls is like being left-handed in a right-handed world.
As a lefty and a dad, I know. Desks, notebooks, and putt-putt clubs aren’t made for you. You adjust.
I’m 43. It’s Richard Petty’s old racing number, and the reason there are always 43 cars in a NASCAR race. The London Telegraph says it’s the age men finally mature. That’s 11 years after women do, according to this Brit rag.
You might remember that daddy/daughter dates are my specialty (when I have a few bucks to spend).
Dollar movies and baseball games, wings with coupons and museum visits. It’s just me, the girl, and undivided attention. I miss these. The Father/Daughter Dance is the Daytona 500 of daddy/daughter dates.
(Or, maybe the Daytona 500 is the Father/Daughter Dance of NASCAR. Depends on who you ask.)
This had been my showcase, people. I was that dad, the one with the dance card full from three beautiful girls. The guy who leads the Electric Slide. The dude who twirls around his girls and dips them and twirls them again.
Energetic. Understanding. Compassionate. Unfair. You heard me. Unfair. Because when I hear those words during practice, from the kids I love and teach and protect … “Coach, this isn’t fair!“
I know the learning’s begun.
In my practices, we play small-sided games. Three against three. Four against four. No scrimmages. No full-field soccer. We set up little goals on the corners of the field, or balance a soccer ball on a cone, or three balls on three cones.