In Search of Common Ground
I don’t know. Why don’t you surprise me?
Yogi Berra (in response to his wife asking him where he wanted to be buried)
It’s easy to find similar interests with your children when they’re little. If your preschooler likes dinosaurs, you bone up on dinosaurs. If you’re teenager plays lacrosse, you master the nuances of lacrosse. And if you’re able to share with your kids your rabid obsession for polka dancing, bravo for you. However, despite a parent’s Herculean effort to remain cool and relatable, finding and maintaining similar interests after the rug rats leave the nest and morph into adults can be a little more challenging.
Such thoughts crossed my mind as I prepared for my trip to the East coast earlier this month. My first stop was Pittsburgh, where my goal was to check out the off-campus digs of Keith Geiger and his Carnegie Mellon roommates. Other than a backed-up toilet and the business/econ major designing his own studio apartment where the dining room used to be, everything seemed to be in proper disorder. Strewn across what was once a white carpeted floor next to a beer-stained wall and a stack of discarded pizza boxes were a half dozen video game controllers. A collection of makeshift chairs surrounding the gigantic 55” television screen formed a cozy amphitheater for the future leaders of America to slay their digital gladiatorial combatants.
Video gaming isn’t just an interest for Keith; it’s a passion. Programming and designing video games for the huddled masses is ingrained in The Skinny Kid’s DNA. Sadly, my interest in video games peaked when I won the 1976 Pong Invitational, so cherished father/son time spent liquidating armies and destroying worlds was never to be found. Moreover, Keith would rather stick pins in his eyes than click on ESPN.com, much less spend a Sunday afternoon on the coach watching a football game. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But it does make it difficult at times to find something to talk about besides how much we both like The Pretty Blonde’s spaghetti sauce.
But during my visit we managed to find a bond in, of all places, a 24-hour greasy spoon located four miles and five decades from Pittsburgh’s financial center. Ritter’s Diner is a classic, old school, steel town hash house, where every cushy booth contains one of those 1950’s-era juke boxes where you push a button to flip the song titles. It was here, over sloppy breakfasts of blueberry pancakes and bacon cheeseburgers, where I happily discovered that Keith knows as much about classic rock ‘n roll as I do. The Doors? Keith’s open to them. The Beatles? He loves ‘em, yeah, yeah, yeah. Jimi Hendrix? Keith knows more about him than I do. Before I left town, I convinced Keith to download on his iTunes account the entire Bob Segar and the Silver Bullet Band playlist. Because, as Bob poetically crooned, rock ‘n roll never forgets. And I’ll never forget where Keith and I found a special bond.
The last stop on my tour was Boston, where I hoped to find the perfect housewarming gift for Ross Geiger’s new apartment. He now rests his weary red head in Beacon Hill, though the Boston Brahmin set who call the tony neighborhood home view his apartment building more as a recycling dump. The first thing I noticed upon entering Ross’ crib was a twelve-inch computer monitor set atop the mantle of the wood burning fireplace. Next to that was a blank wall the size of Boston Common. I knew forthwith just what his apartment needed.
Ross embraced sports the moment he exited the womb, and he’s got the San Francisco 49er Halloween costume to prove it. I did my best during his spirited childhood to fuel his sports addiction, if for no other reason than I needed a sidekick to justify my death grip on the remote control. NFL. NBA. MLB. You name a sports acronym and chances are Ross has watched it, lived it, and breathed it. And though I have no facts to support it, I believe the primary reason Ross chose to attend Brown is because the school was named after the color of a football.
This mutual love of sports between father and son is one reason why the Red Headed Kid decided to give to me a birthday present I had registered at Dadsbucketlist.com; tickets to a baseball game at Fenway Park. To say I was excited and grateful would be an understatement. Visiting the hallowed ground of one of America’s venerable stadiums had always been a goal of mine, and Ross had the generous foresight to come up with the perfect gift. On a magnificent summer day, we walked from Beacon Hill to Fenway, guzzled beers and watched the Red Sox dismantle the Phillies, and walked back, all the while absorbing the unique neighborhood flavors that Boston has to offer. It was a day I’ll never forget.
And what gift did I buy to grace Ross’ new pad? Let’s just say he’ll he happily spending his fall Sundays watching beads of sweat roll down Tom Brady’s face while tuned to the Red Zone channel.