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Funny You Should Ask
Sports Illustrated, April 12, 1999
So we were lying on our backs on the grass in the park next to our hamburger wrappers, my 14-year-old son and I, watching the clouds loiter overhead, when he asked me, "Dad, why are we here?"
And this is what I said.
"I've thought a lot about it, son, and I don't think it's all that complicated. I think maybe we're here just to teach a kid how to bunt, turn two and eat sunflower seeds without using his hands.
"We're here to pound the steering wheel and scream as we listen to the game on the radio, 20 minutes after we pulled into the garage. We're here to look all over, give up and then find the ball in the hole.
"We're here to watch, at least once, as the pocket collapses around John Elway, and it's fourth-and-never. Or as the count goes to 3 and 1 on Mark McGwire with bases loaded, and the pitcher begins wishing he'd gone on to med school. Or as a little hole you couldn't get a skateboard through suddenly opens in front of Jeff Gordon with a lap to go.
"We're here to wear our favorite sweat-soaked Boston Red Sox cap, torn Slippery Rock sweatshirt and the Converses we lettered in, on a Saturday morning with nowhere we have to go and no one special we have to be.
"We're here to rake on a jack-high nothin' hand and have nobody know it but us. Or get in at least one really good brawl, get a nice shiner and end up throwing an arm around the guy who gave it to us.
"We're here to shoot a six-point elk and finally get the f-stop right, or to tie the perfect fly, make the perfect cast, catch absolutely nothing and still call it a perfect morning.
"We're here to nail a yield sign with an apple core from half a block away. We're here to make our dog bite on the same lame fake throw for the gazillionth time. We're here to win the stuffed bear or go broke trying.
"I don't think the meaning of life is gnashing our bicuspids over what comes after death but tasting all the tiny moments that come before it. We're here to be the coach when Wendell, the one whose glasses always fog up, finally makes the only perfect backdoor pass all season. We're here to be there when our kid has three goals and an assist. And especially when he doesn't.
"We're here to see the Great One setting up behind the net, tying some poor goaltender's neck into a Windsor knot. We're here to watch the Rocket peer in for the sign, two out, bases loaded, bottom of the career. We're here to witness Tiger's lining up the 22-foot double breaker to win and not need his autograph afterward to prove it.
"We're here to be able to do a one-and-a-half for our grandkids. Or to stand at the top of our favorite double-black on a double-blue morning and overhear those five wonderful words: 'Highway's closed. Too much snow.' We're here to get the Frisbee to do things that would have caused medieval clergymen to burn us at the stake.
"We're here to sprint the last 100 yards and soak our shirts and be so tired we have to sit down to pee.
"I don't think we're here to make SportsCenter. The really good stuff never does. Like leaving Wrigley at 4:15 on a perfect summer afternoon and walking straight into Murphy's with half of section 503. Or finding ourselves with a free afternoon, a little red 327 fuel-injected 1962 Corvette convertible and an unopened map of Vermont's backroads.
"We're here to get the triple-Dagwood sandwich made, the perfectly frosted malted-beverage mug filled and the football kicked off at the very second your sister begins tying up the phone until Tuesday.
"None of us are going to find ourselves on our deathbeds saying, 'Dang, I wish I'd spent more time on the Hibbings account.' We're going to say, 'That scar? I got that scar stealing a home run from Consolidated Plumbers!'
"See, grown-ups spend so much time doggedly slaving toward the better car, the perfect house, the big day that will finally make them happy when happy just walked by wearing a bicycle helmet two sizes too big for him. We're not here to find a way to heaven. The way is heaven. Does that answer your question, son?"
And he said, "Not really, Dad."
And I said, "No?"
And he said, "No, what I meant is, why are we here when Mom said to pick her up 40 minutes ago?"
We’re Here To…
History Homework, January 27, 2004
“It’s getting really cold, Sarah.”
“Shut-up Jennie. It’s been colder. It’s New England. It has been colder.”
“Fine.” Silence. “This place is gorgeous. Just look at all the stars and the beautiful sky and the moon reflecting in the snow. How gorgeous is that?”
“It’s great.” More silence. “I feel so small compared to them.”
“Yeah. I wonder what it is like. I wish I were a star. I’m having an awful year. It’s terrible so far. God, it’s terrible.”
“I’m sorry Jennie.”
“Oh it’s okay, Sarah. Thanks. I just…agh, I sometimes just don’t get why I am here. I don’t get what I am doing here sometimes. On Earth. At all.”
“Why are we here?” I sit up for drama and prop myself up on my elbows. She follows and looks at me. “Why are we here? We’re here to run through a packed mall, singing at the top of our lungs, embarrassing our best friend on their birthday. We’re here to lose our wallet in Target, hear our name called to the front desk, have our face turn as red as the logo, and still laugh when it’s all over. We’re here to hear a joke from a friend and watch all of Wal-Mart go quiet as they hear your laugh echo throughout the now silent store.
“We’re here to root for the team that hasn’t won the World Series in 81 years and still have faith. We’re here to not make a single soccer goal all season, lose every game, and still say you had the time of your life. We’re here to play hockey on a pond, fall through the ice, be cold for hours and swallow your pride as you laugh about how stupid you looked right before you fell.
“We’re here to go and sit on the top of the roof at 1 am even if you haven’t finished your homework and you have to wake up in five hours for school. We’re here to wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs made by your little brother, which taste like dirt, but you love it anyway, just because he tried. We’re here to play with play-doh at age thirteen and still find the same thrill you found in it when you were five. We’re here to have moments like this with one of your greatest friends; out in the dead of a New England winter on the top of a hill just looking up at the stars.
“None of us are going to find ourselves on our deathbeds saying ‘Man, I wish I’d studied more and gotten a higher score on my SSAT’s.’ We’re going to say ‘It was a birthday present from my friends on my thirteenth birthday; best gift I have ever gotten’ when asked about the hideous bright yellow shirt that has “You Smell” written on the front and someone mooning you on the back.
“Promise me something; that you won’t get caught up in the speed of things and the insanity of everything. Don’t get swept up in this age of affluenza and have to have the perfect car and perfect house and perfect family and perfect job and lots of money. Promise me that you won’t live for that one big day when your boss steps down and gives his position to you that you figure will finally make you happy when happiness is across the street on the kindergarten playground.”
“I promise, Sarah. I promise.” Long silence.
“It is really, cold isn’t it?” Laughs. “Come on. Let’s go home and just be here.”
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