Tornado vs the Walrus

My son learned a valuable lesson today. He learned that gravity makes its own rules, and he learned about two types of fear.

The first type of fear is the type that people get from thrill rides or horror movies. It's a nervous laugh followed by an adrenalin rush, while in the back of your head you know you're safe. Sure, as that roller coaster barrels down, you may have the fleeting though that maybe just this time the track won't hold, but it isn't really strong enough to taste.

The second type of fear is usually only experienced by someone shortly before they die. It's the feeling that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong. Like that pain in your shoulder radiating down your arm, or that tree you know you won't miss. It's a very different type of fear.

Here's the situation, and before anything gets too out of hand, I'll let you know that Kevin and I lived. Kevin weights about 50 pounds soaking wet. I weigh 356 pounds (down from 391...a work in progress). I'm a big fella. But Kevin's 8 and wanted to ride the tornado water slide with his daddy. He'd ridden it with his mom, and it was no big deal.

We climbed the six stories to the top of the ride, which almost killed me right there. No line, and Kevin took the stairs two at a time. I was almost having a stroke when we got to the launchpad.

The float had four seats, and Kevin took the closest one. I took the one opposite him, sacrificing dignity to get my fat butt into the float hole. Kevin's side rose out of the water about a foot while my butt scraped the floor. The life guard gave us a shove with her shins to launch us, and we didn't budge. She tried again. Nothing. She tried to rotate the float and shove again, trying to hide a grin. She knew I was too heavy.

She took a running start and shoved the float hard enough to get us moving slowly towards the edge. "Sorry," I said, sheepishly.

Then we went over the edge into the Tornado.

I knew right away something was horribly, terribly wrong. Kevin was too high and I was too low, and we were moving way too fast. Kevin kept screaming, "You're making it go too fast! Stop it, daddy!" We picked up speed and angled almost 90 degrees, with Kevin slamming back and forth at the top of the float.

"Hold on!" I shouted to Kevin as if we were in a real tornado. Kevin clung to the raft for dear life. Just our luck if we broke free of the float and had to roll out of the ride like two wet hamsters in a sewer drain.

We kept our grips, although at one point I had to grab Kevin with my feet as my shoulders and head bounced against the slide. We shot out of the bottom of the slide fast enough to take the life guard by suprise, and went under briefly. Kevin was off the raft like lightening. I fell off clumsily, a fat walrus stuck in a tidal pool.

Real fear. Something to remember. And a wet flush of a ride with daddy, not to be repeated for a few hundred pounds.

Memory Walk 2008

In 2005, give or take, my father starting displaying signs of early Alzheimer's. In April of 2008, he decided to go for a drive. He crossed traffic and cut in front of a police car, which t-boned his car. The car bounced into a tree, which wasn't good for either the car or the tree. Aside from some fractured ribs, no one was hurt. But the trauma of the accident pushed my father from functional to full blown Alzheimer's.

I had always known what Alzheimer's was, and that it wasn't a nice thing to have. But it wasn't until it came into my home and my family that I realized the impact it can have.We all age. We all grow old and fall into disrepair. But there's something about Alzheimer's, about how it robs you of your history and your connections and your mind, that just isn't...I don't know...just isn't fitting. It just isn't right.

It's a disease, but not a fact of life. There's an old saying about tyranny that applies here as well. Evil flourishes when good people do nothing.I can't cure any diseases, but I won't sit by and do nothing.

I am determined to make a difference. By participating in the 2008 Alzheimer's Association Memory Walk®, I have committed to raise awareness and funds for Alzheimer research, as well as for care and support for people already affected by the disease. Currently more than 5 million Americans have Alzheimer's. Unless we find a way to change the course of the disease, 16 million Americans will have Alzheimer’s by 2050. I want to do my part to fight this fatal disease – but I can’t do it without your help. Memory Walk funds help the Alzheimer's Association advance important research into better treatments and a possible cure for Alzheimer’s. And for the millions already affected by the disease, the Association offers care, education, support and resources in communities nationwide.

On behalf of the millions of Americans who are living with Alzheimer’s, thank you for supporting my efforts.

Donation Page

Father of the Year

Well. I'd like to start off by saying everyone came out of this little clusterf**k alive. That said, we'll get to it.

My wife thought it would be great to try out a golf and sports park out on Route 1. She noticed that my son would probably enjoy the batting cages. I, having no experience with batting cages whatsoever, agreed.

So we went, played some mini golf with the kids (my daughter is four and my son is six). Then we went over to the batting cages. We had only purchased one token, and I had to have the bald lady behind the counter explain to me what we got for a token. My daughter, being the only smart one in the family, didn't like the looks of the cages, and decided she would just watch. My son grabbed a helmet and bat, and strolled into the cage. The speed was labeled as "medium." It went from "slow" to "very fast," so I assumed "medium" wouldn't be too bad.

Let's keep in mind two things. 1: The word "medium" doesn't tell you very much if you have no frame of reference. 2: I'm an idiot.

My son put the token in the machine and I turned to read the instructions. I saw some buttons and a lever thing, and wanted to find out which setting was good for six year olds. The first line of the instructsions said: "Users assume all responsibilities for injuries." The second line said, "The machine will start automatically ten seconds after depositing the token."

Uh oh.

I turn to see my son standing right on the white line that shows the pitching path. I managed to call his name and take a step forward when something invisible went "THWACK" and the little fellow dropped like a sack of potatoes.

I said a word that rhymes with a type of waterfowl and ran the rest of the way. He was just standing up when I got to him and had blood coming out of his mouth. He was most upset, as he had just been hit in the face by a baseball moving at something like 75 mph. I put myself between him and any other balls without thinking, then when the second ball hit me in the ribs I vaguely thought, "Who the hell is kicking me while I'm helping my son?"

As we were leaving the cage, and my wife was asking what the problem was, we passed a dad who looked like he was about to throw up. After all, there was this huge guy getting pummeled by baseballs while escorting a bleeding six year old out.

Ok, I admit it was all my fault. I never should have let him into that cage without at least trying it first, or seeing what it looked like, or something. He had no idea what he was walking into. Neither did I, which is the point. In 39 years I've never used a batting machine. Baseball was never my thing, and when I was growing up batting machines were a little rare. But I have to wonder if maybe it all wouldn't have been avoided by putting a sign out that suggested an age limit. After all, with the strike zone set for his head, there really wasn't any way he could have hit anything, even if we knew what we were doing.

Any thoughts from the peanut gallery?