And tonight, I was emasculated

BY MY WIFE. Well, let's get started with this.

We watch Parenthood, on Netflix. Kami loves this show. I'm warming up to it, but it's a little too emotional for me. I'm not much with "emotions," and especially "showing my emotions," or "having feelings." Everything's fine, and it's always fine, and it's always going to be fine. Or so I would have you believe. Anyway, in this particular episode of Parenthood the girl is learning how to drive.

Quick aside: I failed the written portion of "Basic Motor Skills" in Driver's Ed six times (perhaps my parents don't know this). I couldn't figure out if the car on the page (or the screen) was my car, or if it was the car in front of me. That's a pretty substantial difference.

Anyhow, so I when I got my first car (a 1980 Volkswagen Sciracco), it was obviously a stick shift. My dad took me to the church building, and we took a couple of spins around the parking lot. And then he told me to drive home. I drove the however many miles like I was on the back of a bronco. It took twenty minutes and eight transmissions, but by God, I got it home.

So we were talking about teaching Babby Girl how to drive, and Kami called it, and threw Mr. Six Basic Motor Skills in my face like I have to ride the bus to work, because every time I drive to work it's a miracle I don't end up upside-down in the lake.

I've learned to ask myself, in almost every situation, "Is this worth fighting about?" 95% of the time, the answer is, "No." 5% of the time, the answer is, "Yeah. This is worth it." This wasn't one of those times. So I said, "Okay, but I get soccer practice." Kami laughed.

I went from Zero to Psycho in 1.4 seconds. See, I'm pretty insecure about my non-existent soccer skills. I get up every Saturday morning at 6am and watch whatever game is on. And when I was 22, I was in an intra-mural league where I had an open goal right in front of me and I kicked it over the goal. I was devastated. All I've really ever wanted to do was score a goal. Later in the game, I had another wide open goal, kicked the ball off the post hard enough that it came right back to me, where I - once again - kicked the ball right off the post. Then I fell down. I screamed as though a zombie apocalypse was upon me.

As soon as I called "soccer practice," I could see that episode replay in Kami's eyes, and God bless her, she laughed. Then she said, mid-giggle, "I get baseball practice." Because in Cooperstown, in the midst of my 0-for-13 season, Kami took me into the backyard and showed me how to swing. And she showed me how to swing like I was a nubile college girl, and she was the leery golf pro. Hands on my hips, moving up to my shoulders. And I'll be a monkey's uncle if just about all my buddies didn't turn the corner and see Kami all feeling me up and whatnot.

So I'm not really sure what the point of this is. Yeah, I was emasculated, but not on purpose. There are things I'm good at: I'm good at reading. And making historical topics easier for kids to understand. I'm good at yelling at the television. I know the rules of sports. I'm better at appreciating things. And influencing others. My daughter will know that Josh Gibson was one of the greatest players to ever play baseball. Maybe the best catcher ever - forget Johnny Bench (seriously. Look at 1937, 1939, and 1943), but I won't be able to tell her to keep her elbow up. That's what Kami is for.