Guilt and the Gridiron

There is a commercial for a satellite TV service in which a boy runs to his father and jumps on the couch asking "Can you read me a story?" The father looks around for a second and the crestfallen boy says "Oh, football."

The father says, "Nevermind, I can freeze time!" {Snap} TV action is paused. {Snap} TV action is resumed. "Do it again, daddy!" squeals the kid, book forgotten.

While watching the commercial, my wife said something to the effect of, "Oh, god forbid that he spend some time with his son!"

I replied, off hand, "That's the pain of every child."

The wife looked at me with her brows furrowed, then did an uncanny Spock peak with one of her eyebrows. She stared at me for a moment, then let it go.

When I was but a little guy, I walked into the living room where my dad was watching football on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. After playing for a while at the foot of the couch, I remember looking at him and saying, "I can't wait for football to be over, so that I can have you back."

He looked at me as if in pain, a sight I've never since witnessed. He didn't say anything for a few moments, and I jumped on to the couch and snuggled next to him, happy to watch the game, if it meant that I could be with him.

He couldn't 'freeze time', and he didn't have to. We just watched the rest of the game together.

The pain of every child is in realizing that their parents, even their world, exists outside of themselves alone. There is a time when one first groks that the Me-liospheric model has long since been retired.

It would seem that the pain of every adult is remembering that moment. Moreso, in experiencing it again through the eyes of the young.