This past week I experienced another one of those parental 'what the (insert profanity here) am I doing' moments. I guess running pell-mell after a flying piece of plastic at risk to life, or at least limb, can make you question your sanity.
Last Saturday afternoon was a bit breezy, so I suggested to my daughter that we go fly a kite. After a few failed attempts, the Dora the Explorer kite finally lived up to her name and investigated the blue skies over our backyard. She dipped. She dived. She stalled and spun, but remained aloft.
"Daddy, can I try now?" inquired my patient offspring.
"Ah ... all right, just get ready," I warned, as if handing over controls to a fighter jet at Mach 3.
Now the problem with telling a four year old to hold onto the blue handle is that you're issuing a clear and concise directive. You would be best served by saying something subliminal like, "I think Kimono is the coolest My Little Pony — hang onto the blue handle — don't you?" The more you enunciate the word hold, the less likely they are to grasp the meaning — or the handle. This is one of those parental moments where you have no choice but to let go.
Amazingly, the kite handle swap is so precise it would make a Buckingham Palace guard blush from inadequacy. I keep one eye on the sky and the other on four small fingers wrapped around a blue handle. After a few minutes, however, I let my guard down; right about the time the blue handle lost its gripper. All I can say is that it was a good thing my shoelaces were tied.
Several things raced through my mind as I chased after the windblown Dora the Explorer. The first thought that struck me was that my retro Converse Chuck Taylor's — while technically high tops — offered flimsy ankle support. In fact during the filming of "Hoosiers", five cast members rolled their ankles recreating the basketball scenes, according to the web site www.madeupinternetstuff.com. And I wasn't "running" on some parquet floor, but terrain full of ankle-snapping chuckholes.
While my metatarsals screamed slow down, my pride pushed ahead.
At this point, the kite is galloping ahead like Secretariat at the Belmont Stakes and I'm trailing by at least 15 lengths. It is about this time that a math problem popped into my head: New Dora the Explorer kite: $3. Emergency room bill with x-rays: $1,200. Explaining for the hundredth time how you broke your ankle: priceless fodder for your friends. My brain said quit while your HMO deductible is still ahead. My heart said 180 BEATS PER SECOND! SLOW DOWN YOU IDIOT!
Behind me I can hear Ella call out "run daddy" as I do my best Forrest Gump imitation. I can't believe my lack of 100 yard dash speed. No wonder I never earned the Presidential Physical Fitness Award back in grade school. The kite sprinted along like Ben Johnson on steroids, while my running body mechanics resembled Pee Wee Herman.
Now there comes a terrible moment in every child's life when they witness the harsh reality of their parent's human frailty. They are no longer demigods capable of perceived super human feats, but mere mortals. Like when I witnessed my dad attempt a jump shot during a game of HORSE. I, for one, was not ready to let that moment happen; to be bested by a triangular sheet of plastic.
I don't know if it was a rush of endorphins or the beans and brat lunch, but I hit another forward gear and actually caught up to the kite tail after 150 yards. Just as the blue kite handle threatened to leave terra firma forever, I made a desperate diving tackle. The move was not unlike Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger's game-saving shoestring grab during the NFL playoffs last year. Roethlisberger, however, took down 182 pound cornerback Nick Harper of the Indianapolis Colts. I tripped up Dora the Explorer.
Still out of breath, I marched back triumphantly to the middle of the field to find my daughter staring intently at a ladybug. Evidently a member of the Coccinellidae family held more interest than the human drama of dear old dad. We walked, ever so slowly, back to the house for a magnifying glass.
At 36 years old, I've lost a step or two on my fleeting youth — unfortunately I have the sore quadriceps to prove it.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or email gleiva@gtherald.com