For three years my sons attended an all-boys middle school which, speaking of

rigidity, was rigid in its own way: Jackets and ties worn at all times, heavy

emphasis on history and the classics, a clear hierarchy of status between older and

younger boys. I totally understand this type of environment isn’t for every kid but

it worked for mine.

One spring the sister school (i.e. all girls) to my sons’ institution was putting on a

theatrical production, “The Pirates of Penzance,” which required (you guessed it) a

lot of pirates. Naturally, the show’s producers came to my sons’ school to recruit

boys to fill out the cast. These were non-speaking parts; the need was for crowds of

pirates to be on stage during key scenes.

My two eldest sons came home one day from school and rather dismissively told

me about the casting call. With all you’ve read, you can guess my immediate

reaction: “Boys, you need to do this!”

Of course they immediately balked. This kind of thing was way outside of their

realm of experience.

But as you might imagine, I’m a first-class nag.

So first, I badgered them: “C’mon, boys. This is no big deal. You both give

presentations in class and you play on fields in front of a hundred adults and half of

them are screaming at you to fail [i.e. the opponent’s parents].” No dice.

Second, I tried reason. “Volunteering for this deal will look great to your teachers

and go on your school record.” Nope.

Third, I simply gave up and bribed them. “Ok, here’s the deal. I’ll give you each

ten bucks if you just go to the tryouts. If you don’t like it after the first five minutes

you can leave and I’ll be waiting outside.”

Bingo. That Saturday morning we drove to the sister school and at 9:50 a.m. they

got out of the car with ten- dollar bills in their pockets and departed through the

auditorium doors. I bet you know what happened next.

I didn’t wait outside. I drove away.

I returned to the auditorium doors at noon and 15 minutes later they walked out

wearing white burlap tunics and pirate bandanas and carrying plastic swords. They

were talking with each other as they got in the backseat and fastened their seat

belts and then I said with forced heartiness, “Well! I’m glad I didn’t stick around

too long.”

Silence.

Then the eldest said, “Nice try, Dad.”

I looked in the rear view mirror at him and he continued. “Me and Braden got in

there and Mrs. Cameron came up and said she was counting on us. She gave us this

stuff and said all we have to do is be on the stage when the pirates are yelling and

swinging these swords. We figured we couldn’t leave because of her. Besides, we

knew you already left.”

I turned around to face them in the backseat. There they both sat in their pirate

garb, staring at me. I shook my head and said, “You guys really know your old

man.” “Yeah, we do.” And then all three of us started laughing.

“I’ll be waiting outside” entered the lexicon that day. A throwaway line uttered

when one of the boys was walking into a tough scene or just the unknown, always

uttered with the humorous resignation like other other sayings you’ve read.

“Big game this afternoon.” “This biology test is going to hurt.” “Do I have to go to

the dentist?” And then always, “And yeah, Dad, I know. You’ll be waiting outside.”

                                                       ___________________

“Do the one thing you think you cannot do. Fail at it. Try again. Do better the

second time. The only people who never tumble are those who never mount the

high wire.”  Oprah Winfrey

                                                       ___________________

As with the saying in the previous section, this phrase in odd fashion provided an

element of mental strengthening. Parents know that there are so many things a kid

mildly or wildly dreads. Again, that’s what is called growing up. At 9 and 10

they’d pushed pass the anxiety of trying something brand new (it helped they’d

been together).

After that experience with Penzance - and with other potentially

daunting scenes - they gradually began to understand that they could push past an

unusual challenge; one gave them a framework for the next one, what- ever it was.

And the phrase also allowed them a subtle dig at me, which is all part of the game

of being a parent.

Fast forward. It’s the beginning of summer many years later and I’m dropping off

the youngest son at the U.S. Military Academy (West Point) for the start of what is

called ‘Beast Barracks,’ a rugged two-month trial that begins the grueling four

years of service academy life ahead. We’re sitting in an auditorium full of edgy

parents and anxious kids and after some administrative remarks the General at the

podium suddenly pauses and then practically shouts, “Parents! You have one

minute to say goodbye to your Cadet and exit the building!”

Everyone reflexively stands and despite the emotions we both feel, my son turns to

me with this big grin. I’m grinning as well; we both know the score here. “Dad,

don’t even say it.” Then he shakes my hand and walks away.

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