When Dads Become Cool

            There comes a time in every kid’s life when he gets his first inkling that his dad is more than just his dad—that he fits not only into his family, but into a workplace, a circle of friends, a church and a community.

            Depending on one’s parents, I suppose these could be dicey—even sobering—moments; for me, they were always points of pride that broadened my perspective and enhanced my appreciation of my father.

It was beneficial for me to see Dad as more than just the guy who mowed the lawn and dragged me to get haircuts every two weeks.   My best memories in this regard were the times I accompanied Dad to his workplace—the GM Desert Proving Ground in Mesa, Ariz.  The skunk works aura that enshrouded that facility, all by itself, made Dad seem like something different: cool.  Super-cool, even.  But then there was the fact that everywhere Dad went inside the Proving Ground, people knew him and seemed genuinely glad to see him.  Whaddaya know?  Dad’s popular!

Those glimpses gave me something to picture in my youthful mind’s eye when Dad would go off to work in the morning: a man going to an exciting place where he was liked.  Not a bad image for a kid to carry around.

If I struggled to understand what a mechanical engineer did, I’m sure my kids are hard-pressed to imagine what occupies my own days.  The truth is, most public relations tasks aren’t glamorous—phone-calling, writing, organizing.  Nothing fun to look at.  But yesterday, I had a chance to include my nine-year-old, Nick, in one of the more fun things I sometimes get to do: talk to a TV reporter.

            I’m lucky enough to work for a company that’s involved in racing, and we had the opportunity to talk about it a little bit with one of the morning news shows prior to the NASCAR race at Phoenix International Raceway.  Nick had never been to a big race, and to compound the thrill of being at a track on race day, we got picked up at the gate by a track official who whizzed us past security checkpoints and to victory lane, where the news van was set up.

            There was the usual standing around and small talk while a live-remote reporter awaited his cut-in.  Nick stood off to the side, tolerating the delay remarkably well.  Then the lights and camera came on, there was a mic in my face, and I did my thing.

            When it was over, Nick sidled up to me, smiled and gave me a squeeze.  No words—just a long clench as the reporter and cameraman wrapped things up.  But I knew what Nick’s hug meant:  You’re my dad, and I want all these people to know it.  Later, as we watched the race, I showed Nick our company’s ad in the program, telling him I’d written the copy.  “Dad!” he said. “You’re, like, famous!”

            I laughed off Nick’s exclamation, remembering what a pain in the butt writing that copy had been at the time.  Inside I was beaming.  See, instead of just being the dad who yells “NO!” a hundred times a day, in that moment I had become more: As cool to Nick as my dad had, upon occasion, been to me.