Lessons (about the bird)

It is tradition - a rite of passage even - for fathers to teach their sons valuable lessons. Unknowingly, young boys soak in every bit of information their father's bestow upon them. 


My father taught me how to whittle a stick with a pocket knife (a valuable skill when I get the urge to topple a grizzly with a pointed tree branch). He showed me how to bait a hook, cast a line, set the hook, and reel in a fish. Dad told me how to handle the bullies at school with one swift hit (worked every time). Learned how to hit a baseball, shoot a basketball, and tackle a running back. 


One thing ol' Pop neglected to teach me was something I witnessed recently. 


I attended the Cleveland Browns game this past Sunday. They were playing a division rival and I heard there were a lot of seats still available. Wife and I nabbed seats for 5 bucks each. When others ask, "Where are your seats?" I always reply, "high." That's the only way to describe the general vicinity of our ticket purchases - high. "Up" is also another common term. 

Our view of the game is usually above the first cloud deck.  
(go ahead and count the little helmets on the field - there's 11 each). 

After the hike to the top of Browns Stadium, I realized the 5 dollar ticket price already paid for itself. We were in the only part of the stadium - the top 10 rows - that didn't get rained on. We had a large overhang above us. Sitting in the Stratosphere has it's advantages. I carried a 'Yeah I planned that' type attitude the rest of the night. 



This particular game featured a battle of defenses. The score was 0-0 for a while until our opponents realized scoring wasn't that hard after all. Running in the first touchdown of the game, the other team trotted off the field to a pouring of boos that the Cleveland faithful rained down as hard as the weather they sat in. Not surprisingly, there were a variety of obscene gestures directed at the opponents as well. 


Stewing in my own pot of anger, I glanced down three rows to see a gentleman flipping the bird. I wouldn't have thought much about it until it was obvious there was a young boy on his lap. I assumed it was his son. This assumption was confirmed as the dad leaned to his son and held the middle digit in front of his face as if to show the lad how the bird works. Still maintaining a good flipping-off posture, the dad continued to talk with his son. And talk. And talk. 


I don't know what he said, but I imagined some remarks went like this:


"Well son, this is our only answer to the constant drubbing of touchdowns."
"Only pansies wear purple and black."
"Sometimes words aren't enough, and we have to use hand signals."
"Use this gesture only in traffic and at Browns games."


For a quick second I thought to myself: it kind of looks like he's teaching his son his first lesson on the middle finger. Not a moment later the little boy raised his left hand with only one finger showing. And it wasn't to tell the other team they were in first place in the division. He was putting his thoughts into gesture. 


Couldn't decide if it was better to be proud of this passing of knowledge, or slightly disturbed. 


Either way, I was never taught how to show such distaste with one hasty flip of a finger. I plan on showing my son a lot of the lessons my dad taught me. Whittling, fishing, car care, shaving, batting, shooting, driving, money management, hanging up Christmas lights, and so on. Not so sure the bird is going to be a part of that..........depending on how the Browns continue to do.