So I’ve been going to the YMCA every week for a few months now. If you’re a regular YMCA-goer, fear not. You are not at risk of witnessing me trying to work out on a StairMaster, trying to lift free weights, trying to play racquetball, trying to swim laps, or trying to awkwardly navigate a public locker room. You will never see me sporting seventies style basketball short-shorts as I attempt a layup (outside of your wildest fantasies, that is).

It’s not so easy when your daughter hands you a basketball and asks you to throw it through the “hoop thing” while other fathers (wearing Adidas gear and not jeans) are watching.

Nope, I go to the Y for a gym class with my daughter called “Young Athletes.” It’s awesome. It helps little kids get more comfortable with moving their bodies – running, jumping, throwing, kicking, acting like a gorilla, using a parachute to launch Nerf balls into the stratosphere ... you know, the basics.

We’ve been having a ton of fun (yes, even during the parts where I find myself crawling  around with other adults like a big kitty). But as usual, I feel a tad awkward even just standing inside a gymnasium. I’m trying to be a good role model, helping my kid to feel comfortable doing physical stuff, letting her see her dad running and jumping around, but ... well, that’s not really me. 

It’s especially interesting when we get to the class early, and we can just horse around on our own. See, it’s easy when there’s a coach named “Mr. Tom” telling everyone to act like an elephant and you can trade quick glances with other parents that say, “Yeah, this is pretty ridiculous, but we love our kids. Excellent froggy jumps, by the way.”

It’s not so easy when you’re a grown man with little to no athletic ability and your daughter hands you a basketball and asks you to throw it through the “hoop thing” while other fathers (wearing Adidas gear and not jeans) are watching.

I hold a basketball in much the same way other guys might hold their wife’s purse. My body language informs onlookers that THIS IS NOT MINE. After all, my entire life’s experience with basketball can be summed up in just a few words: I scored two points during a game in the eighth grade.

It was all downhill after that, baby.

 

Balled out.

Yet, a few weeks ago, we got to our gym class early, and I found myself holding a red, white, and blue basketball as my kid stared at me with a big smile on her face, waiting for something to happen. So I lined up my finger tips on the threads of the ball, held it out in front of my chin, aimed for the square on the backboard, and gave it a shot. I even followed through. Because that’s important. Or so I’m told.

And I’ll be damned if it didn’t go in. “I got one in!” I proclaimed. “I can’t believe it!”

My daughter scurried over to the ball, scooped it up, and ran back to me. With a proud grin radiating from her tiny face, she blurted out, “Do you want to tell the other daddies?”

No, kiddo. No I do not.

Later that night, during dinner, my wife was taking a big drink of water when I told her that story. If she hadn’t had a glass right in front of her face, I would have seen a full-on, Three Stooges style spit-take.

My whole life, I’ve always felt at odds with “sports,” and basketball in particular produces a healthy amount of nausea. It took a long time for me to stop feeling guilty about not liking them. At some point, I just made peace with the fact that I’d rather stand on the sidelines and make commentary while my friends played. (Honestly, given my level of coordination, I think everyone liked it that way.)

I’ve always joked that I hope my kids don’t like sports, because then I’d need to learn the rules. But I know I’ll probably just automatically enjoy whatever makes them happy (barring Disney-produced tween rockstars, of course). I mean, making that one basket at the YMCA felt pretty good – probably because my kid spent the next 10 minutes trying to duplicate my b-ball wizardry.

And she was smiling the entire time.