Wasif's World

I'm sitting at my home (a beautiful palatial estate with the ocean in view, not unlike that of Hearst Castle along the Central California coast) about ten years in the future. My six-year-old son sits across the table from me eating a big ol' bowl of jello, lime flavored, (his daddy's favorite). An NFL game is on the television in the background. My son looks up from his dessert.

"Daddy, tell me about the greatest football team in NFL history."

"Well, champ ..." (my father called me "honey" and "sweetheart," so I am definitively NOT going to go that route with my little guy. It'll be nothing but "Bulldog" and "Killer" and maybe even "Sue" just to toughen him up like Johnny Cash's dad did).

"Well, champ, that would be the 1972 Dolphins, the only team with a perfect regular season and a perfect postseason."

"Oooo, wow, so no team has ever won as many games as they did?"

"Uh ..." I paused, "no, there are several teams that have won more than them. The '85 Bears, the '07 Patriots, just to name a few."

"But they didn't win them in a row, right?"

"Well, the Patriots won more games and had an undefeated season too, and won as many games during the postseason that the Dolphins won."

"So the Patriots are the greatest football team of all-time, then."

"No, no. See, the Dolphins do this toast every year once each team gets a loss."

"Even if the team wins more games than them?"

"Uh, right." I scratch my head, which is my poker tell for "I got nothin'."

"What are they toasting?"

"Dammit, I knew he was going to ask that," I think and try to come up with a reasonable answer. "Uh, I guess the fact that they can buy champagne."

I chuckled at my own line. But then I noticed my son looking at me curiously, so I had to explain, "It's a drink adults drink when they run out of orange juice."

"Who has the most home runs in baseball?"

"That would be Barry Bonds, son. You were already born when he set the record."

"Oh, cool. So he's the best home run hitter of all-time."

I got a chill for a second as I could see where this was going. "No, that would be Hammerin' Hank Aaron, son."

"But he doesn't have as many home runs as Barry Bonds."

"Correct." He didn't even need to say anything. Just the look on his face hastens my explanation. "Well, see, ... uh, Hank Aaron got all his home runs the natural way. And Barry Bonds got a lot of his the unnatural way." Even more silence as I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead. And then very rapidly, "There was a man named Victor Conte who ran a chemical factory in San Francisco named BALCO and he gave people like Bonds the "clear" and the ... -- oh, boy -- how's that jello, son?"

"It's good," and without pausing, "and who has the most hits?"

"That," I said proudly, "is Pete Rose, a man they called Charlie Hustle. He played the game like an old-timer, just excited to be out there on the field, giving it his all."

"He sounds great. Can we see his picture when we go to the Hall of Fame?"

"Oy vey." My heart goes down into my stomach. I get up to check the kitchen cabinets. "Where does mommy keep the aspirin? Daddy's head is hurting a little bit." "Daddy?"

"What?!" I snap as I pop a couple of Tylenol back. "Er, I mean -- yes, sweetheart?"

"Memphis made it to the NCAA Championship game in 2008, right?"

"They lost to Kansas, yes."

"So why is it, when you look in the record books, it says they have zero wins?"

Sometimes I forget he's reading at a fifth -rade level. "Eat your jello, son."

Boy, I do not look forward to those father-son chats. When's he going to ask about the easy stuff? Like sex.