posted by Joe Anaya on June 8th, 2015

Lately, my kid has been obsessed with going fishing. But frankly, because he’s only 10, he doesn’t remember the last few times I’ve taken him fishing haven’t exactly been memorable experiences. Of course there’s the time we went to Troutdale, a fish farm with cement ponds stocked with trout. He caught a fish and was very excited until blood spurted out of the fish as I struggled to unhook this mighty 6″ trout.

The last time we went fishing more closely resembled “actual” fishing. But of course, it went a lot like most fishing trips with kids. Early in the morning, another dad and I roused the uncooperative kids from their beds (my son, my friend’s son and a niece, all around 7 or 8-years-old) and throw them in the car. We stop at a bait & tackle shop to buy some worms on the way up. The boys, excited to see the worms, start playing with them in the back seat, splashing dirt and worms around my car despite our commands to “Stop.”

The fishing spot is an idyllic foot-bridge that sits a few feet above a lazy stream. The reeds on the banks fence in the murky water. The sun is breaking through the early morning fog. We lay out our gear and get the kids ready. The problem is, with two dads and three kids, we’re always outnumbered. The three-ringed circus is about to begin.

While showing two of them how to weave a worm on a hook, the remaining kid entertains himself by swinging his line and hook over our heads like a cowboy ready to lasso any unsuspecting dad who stands up too fast. “Please stop.” After careful, instruction on casting, two lines go in the water. One kid has some how managed to get their line in a wad at the reel. If I had spent the next hour trying to foul my line this bad, I couldn’t have come close to the devastation this kid did in one swing. I spend 20 minutes untangling the line. In the meantime, the one who understood the idea of casting, reels in his line, casts, reels in, casts, and reels in at such a tremendous speed that no fish in his right mind would ever bite the bait. He only slows down when he casts into the near by reeds and gets stuck. We cut the line and reset the hook. In ring three, the third kid has now found the lead weights and attached all of them onto her line and of course found a sunken log to get snagged on. And by then kid one has another tangled spool of fishing line. Why doesn’t this kid get it? Another 20 minutes.

“Please be careful, you’re about to kick the bait,” I calmly urge my son. “Huh?” he replies as he spins around to see what I’m warning him of. And of course, he kicks the bait off the bridge. Plop. We watch helplessly as a styrofoam raft of dirt and nightcrawlers bobs gently down stream and out of sight.

My gaze shifts from the stream, to my friend. He gives me the nod. I stand and ask, “Who wants to go get ice-cream?”

originally posted 7/4/11



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posted by admin on June 5th, 2015



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posted by Matt W on June 3rd, 2015

My daughter called me in a panic the other day as she had forgotten to bring her folder for school that she keeps all her assignments in. Because she needed to turn in multiple assignments, I threw her a bone and brought it to her. I meander into the school past the playfield where a 4th grade PE class is taking place. They’re playing kickball and I think back to my elementary days and remember how cool I thought kickball was. “Step back, Matt’s up” were indeed golden words in a small boy’s ear.

I go in and drop off the folder. She actually said, “Thank you,” and seemed to have meant it which is nice for a teenage girl. As I walk back to my car, I pass the field again and I notice that almost everybody on the field sucks. The pitcher is rolling the ball and seems to be the only person I would consider an athlete. Numerous crappy kicks are followed by even crappier fielding and almost everyone makes a home run because unless the pitcher was throwing the ball to get an out, there was no way a toss would be anywhere near the runner. In stunned amazement, I watch on.

A kicker is up and kicks a ball straight up in the air to the shortstop; a proverbial “can-of-corn”. As the shortstop doesn’t have to move his feet at all to make the play I’m thinking this is an out, even this kid can’t miss this play. As the ball comes down into what I assume will be his arms, I notice that his hands aren’t even up. The ball literally misses his nose by 1 inch and hits him in the gut as it goes to the ground. The runner ends up on third because it takes awhile for the pitcher to track down the ball
and run it over there.

“Use your fucking hands” are the words that so desperately want to exit through my lips but as I am watching 4th graders at a religious school I somehow find the power to be quiet and keep my daughter enrolled. I instead stand there in disbelief as the PE teacher says, “Maybe next time you should try to put your hands up”. Really? I would personally suggest full body armor because if your natural instinct when a ball is coming at your face is to do nothing, you’re not long for this planet without protection. Don’t ever give this boy keys to a car. In caveman times, these were the people that were referred to as “food.” Now
I’m not suggesting that we need to go back to my elementary days when my PE teacher used to use the paddle on us for not wearing a jockstrap when none of us prepubescent boys had a clue as to why we had to use one, but isn’t there some middle ground. Every last one of us kids could play. We all played ball. Now some were better at football, and some baseball or kickball, but every last one of us could play. The last person picked when I was in school would have been the freaking captain of the 4th grade kickball team at my daughter’s school.

As the words “it can’t get any worse than this, can it?” enter my head, my question is immediately answered. In the outfield there is a small boy running around in circles singing “I’m a pretty pony, I’m a pretty pony, I’m a pretty pony…”

I retreat to my car and drive away.

originally posted 7/15/11



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