Page 101 of King of the Crease

“It wasn’t meant to be.” I move chicken around my plate, but opt for the potatoes again. I’m in a carb state of mind right now.

“Why not?”

I look up from my plate when I realize that wasn’t another dose of sarcasm. “Brody, the guy’s royalty. And I’m…”

“You’re what?”

“A plumber who gorges on Christmas candy and cracks jokes. The prince and the plumber? I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“You already asked that.”

“Well, I’m asking it again.” His eyebrows furrow together like a furious arrow.

“Does Mario get the princess in Super Mario Bros.?” I admire my son’s youthful optimism, but unfortunately, part of being a dad is delivering a reality check. “Nick is…look, I’m not some diplomat or titan of industry. I’m not a brilliant, enterprising genius like my son.” I gesture at Brody. “Guys like me don’t wind up with crown royalty. We’re not…”

“What?” He asks, getting more heated.

“Good enough.” It’s a mini punch in the gut hearing that thought said aloud. It had to be said, though. “That’s just how it is.”

“Dad, that’s bullshit!” Brody, my even-keeled son, bangs his hands on the table in the most visible sign of anger I’ve seen from him since elementary school. I scoot back in my seat on reflex, shocked by the shift.

“Watch your…language?”

“I won’t. That’s bullshit, and I’m calling it out as bullshit! I am tired of hearing you shit all over yourself. ‘Oh, I’m just a plumber.’ ‘Oh, I didn’t go to college. I’m not a smartie.’ Dad, do you know what I wrote my application essay about?”

“Microplastics?”

“No. I wrote about the person who’s been the biggest influence on me. The person I consider the smartest man I know.” His voice wobbles. “My father.”

I’m immediately hit with a wallop of emotion that I can’t process. It sits in my throat, waiting for a cue. “What? Me? I don’t understand most of what you’re doing with your science projects. I can’t help you with your homework.”

“And most kids can’t fix a leaky faucet or redo piping. Most people can’t run their own successful business. Most parents don’t show up to every quiz bowl match, every math olympiad. They don’t run lines every night for their son’s last minute theatrical debut. Smart comes in many flavors.

“You may not understand exactly what I do, but you’re curious to learn. You care. Which is more than I can say for Mom. She lets me go off to do my ‘smart thing’ as she calls it, but never asks what I’m working on. She only wants to brag to her friends about my straight-As. I know when couples split up, the kids usually go with the mother. I am so grateful that I get to spend half my time with you.”

I feel my face and find that my eyes have sprung a massive leak, matching Brody’s.

He brushes his wild hair out of his eyes. “Who gives a fuckity fuck that Nick’s a prince? Most royals are just fucking inbred dilettantes who have zero skills. You are good enough for Nick, for anybody. I wish more people were like you. The world would be a better fucking place. It’s Nick who should be wondering if he’s fucking good enough for you.”

“You really enjoy cursing.”

“You didn’t say anything when I said bullshit, so I figured I’d keep going.”

I gaze at my son, wondering at this creation. From baby, to boy, to a fully formed man.

“Come here.” I stand up and wrap him in a hug. “How did I get so lucky?”

“You didn’t get lucky. You’re just that good of a dad.”

“I thought teenagers were supposed to hate their parents.”

“I’m taking a brief moratorium to knock some sense into you.”

I love that I have a son who uses the word moratorium in casual conversation.

“I’m gonna miss you next year,” I whisper against his curly hair.