The Child that Eats Wind
I tell my 5 year old that when I was his age I wanted to be a baseball player. Probably because I might have been a part of the last generation of young fans of baseball. Not that I still am a fan–in fact, I honestly cannot stand the game and suspect that my interest in baseball was a byproduct of my dad trying to live vicariously through me, and I just didn’t know any better because why would I, I was 5. But I committed to not be like my dad in that regard (though there are plenty of things that I do try to emulate of my dad’s since other than the baseball thing he was a pretty good dad, all things considered), and I want my son to find his own passions and interests on his own.
By telling my son what I thought I wanted to be when I grew up, I thought I was sparking a conversation that would lead to us discussing his interests and hobbies. I suppose I was feeling a little guilty. I had not seen my son in a few weeks because of some issues his mom and I were working through–though I’d rather not hash all that out again. I just wanted to enjoy the time I had with my son.
But instead of telling me his interests, my son asks me, “What’s baseball?”
“A sport where you try and hit a small ball that’s being thrown at you at high speeds as hard and as far as you can.”
“Is it fun?”
“I suppose it can be. Did you want to watch a game?”
“Sure.”
So I find out when the next game is, and I buy tickets. That’s right, I’m not going to half-ass it in exposing my son to a sport by having him watch it on television. I buy him a team jersey, a foam finger, and take him to the stadium that’s moved two or three times around the city since I was a kid and looked nothing like the stadium of my childhood. But that’s okay. I’m not upset. This is about my son. I determined a long time ago to not become that guy that gets increasingly upset the older he gets because things change.
All I want to do is spend a nice weekend afternoon with my kid. Maybe get to know him a little better. Maybe he gets to know me. Maybe he goes back to his mom and puts in a good word that he had a nice time hanging out with his dad.
It’s a hot summer day, and the sun blares down on us. But I prepared. I applied a whole bunch of sunscreen to my son and myself. I made sure he wore a hat and sunglasses. I even got one of those portable electric fans (with extra batteries), so he doesn’t overheat.
As the game rolls on, I look over at my son and explain to him what’s going on and what all the rules to the game are–at least, the ones I can remember. Everything seemed to be going fine. My son and I were enjoying a classic American, father-son moment.
Then he looks up to be and says the most dreadful thing a child can tell a parent, “I’m bored.”
“Yeah, me too.” I had inadvertently nodded off to sleep a couple of times. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. Between the sun, the smell of sunscreen, and the slow pace of the game, I could not find it in my to enjoy anything about baseball.
We collect our things. I buy a hot dog for my son to enjoy on the ride home. I think about getting him a souvenir to remember the day, but I figure it’s not worth it since neither of us enjoyed watching the game, and he would more than likely shove it into the corner of his closet to collect dust over a handful of years before my wife finds it some ten years or so later and just tosses it because it means nothing to her and it means nothing to my son.
On the ride home my son asks, “Why’d you ever wanna be a baseball player?”
“I dunno. I suppose when I was younger I thought it was a fun game.”
“It was not.”
“Yeah, I guess not. But sometimes when you’re young you don’t know any better.”
“I do. That was a boring game.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. What do you wanna be when you grow up?”
“I like eating wind”
“Eating wind?” I think I misheard, or perhaps my son was mispronouncing a word he had heard.
But he doubles down. “I want to be a wind eater.” At which point my son opens his mouth as wide as his little jaw permits, takes in a big gulp, and clamps down as hard as he can muster–effectively eating the wind.
I honestly don’t know what to say to the child. I don’t know if I should be proud or tell him good luck with that and not say a word about how wind eating isn’t a real thing. I can’t bring myself to dash his dreams. So I say nothing. I give him a nod.
He asks if I can roll down the window. He spends the rest of the car ride home with his face stick out, chomping at the wind as we pick up speed.
Fred Aiken Writing 