Your Father May Beat You In The Game
And You May Not See Him Coming
First a medal then a garland over the gently bowed head, a handshake and he feels good in a fitted suit and straightens his tie telling himself to stand erect now, to hold up his head and shoulders as the drum rolls play a bit louder to the microphone steps the announcer;
the camera flashes go off in his face — certainly, this is being beamed live on several national television stations he wonders how he looks now, whether to smile or keep a stern face.
He hears names from the citation of his institutions and the offices of his positions and the places — he is being primed and presented to the wide world in glossy frames.
The encomiums pour in torrents, the commendations reeled out broken only by the loud applause of the hugely appreciating audience he feels so lifted by their energy then the chairs scrape the floors;
they rise unprompted to their feet most looking happily at him, others seriously looking past him to the screen right up behind a scroll through of accomplishments, and a list of awards and honours.
He knows he’s never really checked; something in them unnerves him, that's why he doesn't ever watch his own many appearances on tv or on video and why he fidgets and hates to stand for photographs for the feeling that he would see his imperfections the others miss.
Now in the drum rolls, he thinks he hears something a bit unreal, some hint there’s no real measure and that nobody is wholly right, and nobody is entirely wrong — the words of the critics and fans about us may not really tell much and he smiles at just thinking what big news it would make, how embarrassed he would be if his guts choose to give way and he pees down these trousers up here on this special occasion;
maybe his mother would understand she knows how clumsy he could be much as she loves what he’s become in the pride, she shows in those eyes. How much she suffered for him, how much for it he loves her and how sweet she knows it so. His Dad has been another story, believing a bit too much in him from the beginning all the way.
His knowing nod had warmth with it, the silence of deep wisdom the quiet example of his own life lived without ever a complaint, of doing well what has to be done, of a tame tongue and keen intellect a kind consideration for everyone, of few words and calm demeanour, one with the refinement of a noble soul and he would always nicely say: ‘you should never raise your voice’, to those above or those below you — you climb up or you step down to be heard while you look them firmly and gently in their eyes’.
Strangely, now he remembers the pretty girl he so admired in his very first year at school and wondered if she could ever remember that shy lad, how time flies while we stroll.
Guiltily, he wondered why his mind chose to flip out so when in focus it should be; the room now suddenly quiet, maybe his thoughts were heard.
But it was now his own moment, time for his thank-you remarks.
Yes, he knew what to tell them: he has always been a dreamer and dreams brought him here and he has been daydreaming even right here now on the stage.
Much of what was said about him could word for word be for his dad and today this hour this moment brought it to him more than ever, the old man had written the scripts
OU082020