OK, so I’ve never really been into sports. I like watching sports (live, rarely TV), I play golf, but really, the only time I really enjoy playing sports is when there’s an “EA” or “Wii” in front of it (and still, that doesn’t happen often).
So what happens every Father’s Day? People trot out “Shoeless Joe” (a k a “Field of Dreams”) or something like that. Sometimes it has nothing to do with Father’s Day, it just has to have a ball in it (hey, you know what says “Dad” to me, let’s show psycho Barbara Hershey shoot Robert Redford and throw herself out a window!).
And just as bad, there’s always some literary brick full of sturm and drang and meth and self-mutilation, often taking place in Manhattan, that just makes you so miserable for no good reason. And did I mention it’s a brick? Suddenly, you need to read this on Father’s Day. Are you really going to? Cuz by Tuesday you’ll have forgotten all about it.
And don’t even get me started on all the books with a tank or a jet or a red star on the covers.
And there’s not a whole heck of a lot wrong with either of those. If you like them, great. But it just a kind of lazy, fall-back marketing. Even sports head or literary or sports-head-literary dads are into other things.
So what I offer is neither of those. No playing catch, no matchup zone, no I formations, no meth. And you can read it right now, right here (page 16). I give you “The Rocket” by Ray Bradbury, which pretty much sums up the manic, angst-ridden, joyful, needy, hare-brained and moronic minds that fathers have that delights children but confounds and befuddles mothers while totally making them look awesome to all of mom’s hot friends.