A little silly mid-off

Parenthood throws its first curveball at this cricket-obsessed dad

When my wife told me she was pregnant with our first child, I slumped forward in my La-Z-Boy and wept sloppily into the popcorn bowl. In that moment, I knew that my life would be blessed with children… and
more cricket. I love cricket. No, I have never played the game – I wasn’t that good. I love cricket because it was my first sport. The bat, the ball, the pads, the helmet were tools I used to launch the athletic years of my youth. So I looked forward to that day when I would ask my child the timeless question, “Wanna have a hit?”

Actually, I did more than look forward to it. I obsessed. Before my wife was even showing, I was prowling the aisles of Sportsman’s Warehouse for cricket equipment. I wanted our unborn superstar to have the very best gear. I examined the gear like I was looking for flaws in diamonds. I bought the very best, put it on the top of my wardrobe and I waited, and I waited, and I waited.

Four years later, I decided it was time. The air was crisp, a spring sun had turned the garden into that magical cricket-field green. Henry’s athletic life would begin today. He would remember it.

I went to the wardrobe and pulled down the equipment. The willow smelled fresh. Shaking with anticipation, I showed Henry his new bat. “Wanna have a hit?” I asked, choking back a sob. He looked at the bat, at the ball I was holding, at me, and said, “Kay,” with a shrug.

Henry’s lack of enthusiasm deepened when I helped him into the pads. It could have been that they were a tad too big.

“Here we go!” I thundered, trying to ignite his competitive spirit. I handed him the bat, stepped back a few paces, and said I would throw the ball gently to begin with.

Henry focused, raised the bat, the ball came to him and hit the wicket clean and sharp. “Don’t worry, son, it’s your first time,” I said, running to put the bails back on.

Before I could get back to my position, he asked, “Dad, when do I get to wear leotards?”
An arrow of panic pierced my solar plexus. Henry explained that he had seen some girls wearing leotards at school and they looked “cool”. When could he get one. My vertiginous reply was something like, “Uh…we’ll see…”

On that sunny spring day, I realised that expectation is the ball that gets tossed between fathers and sons. I’d never be able to design my children to meet my expectations; all I could do is guide them.

Whether I liked leotards or not, Henry was going to be his own man. And I have an unused Jacques Kallis cricket bat sitting on the top of my wardrobe to prove it.