My Dad Can Beat Up Your Dad

Inspired by the book Season of Life, my men’s group lately has been discussing what it means to be a man. What are our definitions of masculinity? How has our culture defined masculinity? How have we, as Christians, defined it?

It has made for interesting conversation and then, one day, one of the guys asked: “What do you think your dad would say if you asked him to define masculinity?”

While he may not have a by-the-book definition of masculinity, my dad has certainly shown me and told me what it means to be man through his actions and sage advice.

Here are some of my favorite pieces of advice passed along over the years by my dad:

Life’s Not Fair: This is, of course, the classic. And, to make matters worse, it is completely true. Bad things happen to good people. As my dad would say: “You can sit there and piss and moan about it or get off your ass and make something happen.”

Remember Who You Are: This is an old school interpretation of asking the progeny to maintain the stellar reputation of the family name. When you grow up in a town of 1,000 people, you definitely have to remember who you are.

Walk It Off: Yes, I grew up in a walk-it-off household. My father does not suffer whiners at all. Unless you have internal bleeding or there is a bone sticking out, you should be able to walk it off and go on about your business.

Do What You Say: This is a big one. My dad is a firm believer in a man’s word and a handshake. If you say you’re going to do something, you do it unless something dramatic happens – like death, for example.

Wear A Condom: I was about 13 years old. We were out in the dove field and as I was standing up to take aim at a bird, my dad said: “Son, if you decide to have sex, wear a condom.” I nearly blew my foot off. And we’ve never spoken about sex since.

Finish What You Start: This kind of goes hand in hand with Do What You Say but it can be boiled down to: You don’t quit. I’ve broken this rule more than once in my life and have lived to regret it most times.

Work Hard: My dad is a good Calvinistic Presbyterian. He loves to have a good time but when it’s time to work, it’s time to work. He has no patience for loafers or, as he puts it, “people who are eaten up with a bad case of the L.A.Z.Y.”

Do Your Best: If you’re going to do something, do it right. In essence this is the flip side to “don’t do anything half-assed.”

Bonus Sayings: Absolutely two of my all time favorite sayings of my dad are designed to indicate that there are some people who are just too lucky for their own good: “I cannot believe that. Those fellas were born with horseshoes stuck up their ass.” Or “Dang. That guy is luckier than a cat with two peckers.”

And here’s the thing. . .while my dad never sat me down and said, “Son, here is what it means to be a man,” the advice he gave me has allowed me to grow into the husband, father and man that I am today. And for that I am indeed extremely blessed and grateful.

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Son, Life Ain't Fair -- (11.13.08)

“So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”

Jesus hammers home this theme all in Matthew.

We were discussing this recently in our Sunday School class when I was struck by the dichotomy of it.
On the one hand, I find this concept to be re-assuring.

Before the days when anyone in public schools really gave a whole lot of thought about a child’s self-esteem, you had two team captains on the field (or court or wherever) picking from the whole group of us.

Fairly quickly the crowd would be winnowed down to the “special” kid, who spat on people and ran off; the foreign exchange student, who spoke no English that anyone could tell; and me, the fat kid.

And, inevitably, if the humiliation of being picked last weren’t enough, we would be “skins” and the other guys would be “shirts.”

Oh.. .joy.

So, the concept of the last shall be first seems pretty cool.

But then there is the balance of that.

Essentially, this saying could be summed up with: “You know, kid, life just ain’t fair.”

When I played Little League, one of the inviolate rules was that to play in the game, you had to come to practice.

Technically, that should be rephrased to be: You had a “chance” to play in the game. Because I came to practice every time they had practice. Most times, we practiced on the field just down from my house so I would grab my glove, my hat and my cleats, hop on my Huffy bicycle and head on down.

Usually, I would take my assigned spot in right field and wait.

Then we would be called in for batting practice, which, honestly, was the primary reason I was in the game at all.
As one lady told my dad: “Yore boy cain’t run and cain’t catch, but, dang, he shure can hit.”

So one day I’m out in my spot in right field daydreaming when the coach’s yelling startles me back to reality.

Turns out that our starting second baseman did not show up for practice and my reward for hitting the ball so well was that, if I showed I could play the position, I would start at second base at the next game.

Holy Crap! Second freakin’ base! How is that possible? I would be in the infield. One of the key players on the infield. The other infield starters gave me dirty looks but I didn’t care. Dadgum, I was playing second base! I couldn’t wait to tell my dad, my mom, my grandmother, and anyone else who would stand still long enough.

The coach began to pepper us with balls.

Number one rule in Little League? Keep everything in front of you.

This is easier said than done. You see the coach smack the ball and you see the ball speeding at you. Your natural instinct – the instinct of any highly-developed life form – would be to move out of the way.

If the ball hits you, it’s going to hurt.

But I stood my ground. Nothing – and I mean nothing – was going to get by me.

The coach peppered me with balls for what seemed like an eternity. And when he got tired, the assistant coach came in.

I caught balls in my glove. I batted them down with my bare hand. I blocked them with my legs. I blocked them with my chest. I blocked them with my back. I blocked them with my feet. I dove. I leaped.

We practiced infield pop-ups. We practiced turning double plays. We practiced throwing runners out at home plate. We practiced backing each other up.

It was an absolutely amazing day and by the end of it I was beat to hell. Bruises covered me. But I didn’t care. I was playing second base. I was on the infield.

I could hardly contain myself.

I jumped on my Huffy and pedaled home as fast as my legs could carry me.

I rushed in the house and announced it to anyone and everyone – I was going to play second base this Saturday. Second freakin’ base!

The day for the game arrived. It was away – probably in Speake or Town Creek – so my mom drove me to the field.

We got there. I jumped out, ready to take my spot at second base for practice. That’s when I saw him. The starter. He was out there with the coach fielding grounders.

I walked up and when I saw the coach turn to greet me, I knew how this was going to end.

“Pippen, well you see he showed up. He’s the better player so you’re going to have to sit this out.”

Well, dang.

“So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”

Yeah, yeah, I know.

My Shame: Part 1

My father owned a hardware store in Courtland, Alabama, from the mid-60s to about four years ago when he decided to sell his interest and retire. The majority of my memories from the store are excellent ones.

It was (and is) and old school hardware store. It had just about everything you could ever possibly want. From lumber to combinets to kerosene to Afro-Sheen. The store had it all plus it had something that is simply hard to find anymore – clerks who could actually help, answer questions and provide instruction.

I began working there about the time I could walk and talk. For a young boy living in a small town, the hardware store was a never-ending cornucopia of playthings for young boys looking for something – anything – to do on any given day during the summer in a town with fewer than 1,000 people.

Plus, it had the added value of providing no end of boy-like giggles when grown men would come in the store and ask for “4-inch nipples” or “the male end of a hose-pipe” or “a female adapter.”

Of course, as I got old enough, I began helping customers by answering questions, bagging nails, mixing paint, and tracking down the occasional odd or end.

Of course, there were rites of passage.

More than one person came in looking for a left-handed crescent wrench. I scoured the store looking for the elusive item and would find myself at the very back of the store’s nether-regions, as directed by my father, looking for this important tool while watching for black widows, brown recluses and all other manner of creepy crawlies that could bite me and leave me convulsing, foaming at the mouth, and dying in a completely undignified manner.

Of course, when I would return to the front of the store, they were all there laughing with tears streaming down their faces and then would ask me to go fetch the ever-popular “sky hook.”

When people hear that my father owned a hardware store and that I worked there, they naturally assume that I am handy. That I have some natural sense of how to replace a “J” bend or re-wire an electrical socket.

It is here that I reveal one of my greatest secrets. I carry it like an albatross. Like a scarlet letter. Like a mark upon my forehead.

Yes, it’s true, I admit. . .I am simply not handy.

I may possibly be the “anti-handyman.”

Plumbing? I break pipes, ruin faucets, scar walls, spray water on sheetrock.

Electrical? I’ve touched hot wires, crossed up grounds.

Grouting? I spent an entire Saturday grouting the bottom of my shower only to watch it all wash down the drain when I didn’t let it cure long enough.

Woodwork? Please. I’m a big fan of “rounding off” when I measure, which can lead to trouble and I always get confused by 1/8ths versus 1/16ths.

At parties, invariably, the conversation will turn to some sort of home improvement project usually being done by the men themselves. We’re all married now so, of course, we don’t talk about sex or “going out” anymore. It’s all about home improvement and sports.

When the subject turns to home improvement projects, I find myself nodding and smiling like someone hearing impaired who is covering because they are only picking up every other word.

And, so there it is.

My father has never said anything out loud. He doesn’t have to.

I could see the look in his face when he would ask me to run to the back of the store to get some innocuous hardware-type item that any first grader would recognize and I would return with the complete opposite item.

Now that I’m older, I have come to terms – somewhat – with my secret. My shame. I keep true handymen on speed dial. I love to regale my father with some new massive handyman failure.

Because like many people who don’t do something particularly well, I spend a great deal of time going out of my way to prove that exact point.