We show up at the first tee, getting ready to spend a great day together. I am playing golf with David and our friend, Kevin. We are walking the course, rather than taking carts, when there we are on the first tee and a guy comes rolling up in a cart. 

For non-golfers, if you don't have four people in your group, they will add more people. You end up playing with strangers quite frequently. It's usually great for an extrovert like myself. Well, it's an older gentleman, we'll call him, "James." He introduces himself to me and then walks up to the boys at the tee.

"Hi, I'm James. I'm 88 years old and this is the first f-ing year I have to take one of these f-ing carts."

I'm thinking, "Whoa, hold on there, gramps, we don't need the "F" bombs dropping because you, somehow, think this is necessary to connect to these young men." 

Instead, I take David aside, and say, "I'll find an opportunity very quickly to nip that talk in the bud." 

Then, David tees off, and doesn't hit it that well. 

"Son, let me tell you something my teacher, Ben Hogan, taught me. Watch the club hit the ball."

Here we go. Now, one of the sacred rules of golf is you don't give advise unless you are asked, in particular if you are a stranger. Then dropping the "Ben Hogan" line, one of the most famous golfers and teachers of the game, ever, well kind of a bragging thing for James to offer right off the bat, but at least intriguing. And James could hit the ball, well. Amazing, really for his age. I think I'm gonna get the chance to at least ask him something about Hogan during the next 4 hours, and maybe ask him for a few pointers.

David and I are walking down the fairway now, and he glances over at me with a "who the heck is this guy?" look and I say,

"David, think about it. Your 88 years old, you're still a really good golfer, and you show up in the middle of the morning to play alone. This dude must have burnt a lot of bridges over the years. We probably haven't seen anything, yet." 

I didn't realize how quickly that prediction will come true. On the third hole, after we had putted out, James jumps in his cart and quiclky drives to the next tee on his own, saying, "O.K. fellows, I 'll see you later," and that was it.

I looked at the guys and said, "Huh?" It's not as if we were playing bad; actually we were playing pretty good.

Then, Kevin tells us why James might have left.

It seems James and Kevin were having their own conversation as they were coming down the fairway. James asked Kevin how old he was. Kevin told him he was 21. Then Kevin tells us, James says this:

"When I was your age I was haivng a good time on Omaha Beach."

Kevin says, " O ya, is it a nice place?"

(Now, let's pause here.  "Omaha Beach" doesn't necessarily register with younger folks, especially if they haven't had a history class for awhile. For me and those older than me, of course, we would instantly know what James meant.)

James says in a huff, "No, it wasn't a nice place. If it hadn't been for guys like me, you wouldn't be here enjoying your freedom right now."

Kevin doesn't know what to say to this. So he replies.

"Look, I'm just here to have fun and play some golf."

After hearing this story from Kevin, David and I goofed on him, for a little while. After all, I know pretty much all there is to know about D-Day and the Normandy Invasion. Actually, as a child, it was a little confusing, because I thought "D-Day" was short for "Dana Day." You see, my birthday is, you guessed it, June 6th!

For David the situation is also a "no-brainer." He went through four years of NJROTC, and is actually excellent at military history. But, we weren't too hard on Kevin.

Here is what I know. First of all, James probably set Kevin up with the whole "Omaha Beach" thing. Why did he have to bring this up, out of the blue? Might have been similar to dropping the "Ben Hogan" line. To tell you the truth, many veterans I have known over the years don't want to talk at all about their service. Especially, the battles and bloodshed. If one does speak of this, that's fine, but be gracious enough to cut the kid a little slack.

Second, come to think of it, Kevin's dad, my good friend, Ray, served in Vietnam, and my hunch is he didn't get the same type of response as James did when he came home. I'm just saying...

Kevin handled the situation admirably, as he could have responded in a lot of different ways. So, let me do the same.

James, whoever you are, and wherever you are, I am going to cast this situation in the best of light and assume, you simply were in more of a hurry than us and didn't want to wait for three walkers to play the round with you, as you had a cart. If you jumped ahead of us because you were perturbed, however, well, that has way more to do with you, than anything else. God bless you, my friend. 

Here's how it works for a Meyers Briggs NP. Decide to go to the game at 1:15. Game starts at 2. Called Kristina at her home in Burbank and asked her to drop us off. No $40 parking. Jumped in the car and drove to Burbank.

"David, you drive while I surf Stubhub." It's 1:45 and two seats on Wisconsin side by the end zone are going for half price. 200 tickets left, so hit buy. Got 'em.

Arrive at Sean and Kris's, 1:50. Hit Pasadena at 2. Jump on shuttle, see on ESPN app- Wisconsin scores!

Make it to the front gate, find StubHub will call, and we are in our seats by 9 minutes in the 1st quarter. Won't say much about the game (we lost), but at least David got to experience his first Badger Rose Bowl (my 3rd Wis. RB live). We got to "jump around" after the 3rd quarter. Badger fans know what I am talking about. Actually, I jumped up and down with my feet firmly planted.

"Dad, don't jump, you'll fall!"

Got to listen to your kid, once in awhile.

Well, games over and we get into line to take the shuttle bus. About 40 minute wait, and then back to Old Town where Kristina picks us up curbside.

A great day with my boy...Not every boy had that experience.

Some people cut into our "cattle line," as we are waiting for the bus. Shouts of "Line cutters!" filled the air. The worst "cutter" is a dad, with two young boys. People are screaming at the guy, he's cussing back, and David and I are the audience of this debacle in fatherhood.

The two sons have their eyes down in shame. One of them, at one point, actually tries to get dad to leave line. Dad's face is beet red, and he's not moving.

David turns to me and says, "There's a man unhappy with his life."

Yep, but not as unhappy as those two boys who have this moral giant guiding them. Hopefully, this will go down as a "not gonna be like my dad in that category" moment for the sons.

One can only hope...

Despicable. 

Oh, we watch skinned knees and broken hearts from a bit of distance. It hurts us to the core to see our precious sons and daughters suffer, but we realize there are times it is part of growing in character and confidence that we allow them to stretch in their lives and relationships. But, when it comes to our children's souls, the core of who they are, a father protects his sons and daughters from all evil. Whatever threatens their very souls, the core of who they are, a loving father stands like Gandolf, and cries out,

"You shall not pass!"

This is not just the role of dad.

Any man worth his Y chromosomes is going to be father protector in the extended family.

Older brother.

Grandpa.

Uncle.

Cousin.

And any man who is given the privilege of spending time in a father's role in someone else's son's or daughter's life, the echo against evil remains.

"You shall not pass!"

Friend.

Babysitter.

Teacher.

COACH...

"Deliver us from evil."

Any man worth being called a man, answers to the call:

"Deliverer!"

Evil? Horror?

"You shall not pass!"

My fingers are burning right now. I don't want to short out your screens while you are reading this, so I will finish.

Fathers...Protectors...

Men...

These are our sons and daughters...

evil one...

and those who would follow your vile touch on their own lives...

...In the name of God,

YOU SHALL NOT PASS!!

Dr Pepper was first sold in 1885, one year earlier than Coca Cola. Like similar drinks, it was originally marketed as a brain tonic and energy drink, first served at a drug store in Waco, Texas. Touting 23 different ingredients, one of them always rumored to be prune juice.

Well, like all products these days, Dr Pepper has to have variety. There are nine Dr Pepper drinks currently being sold in the United States. The latest version is “Dr Pepper 10.” “Ten Bold Calories” it says right on the 16 ounce plastic bottle. Except that it is ten calories per 8 ounce serving, so the honest name ought to be “Dr Pepper 20.” Or “Dr Pepper 15” for a 12 ounce can. But, I digress.

Dr Pepper 10 is being marketed as a “man’s drink.” “It’s only 10 manly calories, but with all 23 flavors of Dr Pepper.“ Apparently, Diet Dr Pepper doesn't have all the ingredients, besides just not having corn syrup for a sweetner? But, “it’s what guys want.”  O.K., I’m getting thirsty just thinking about this. It makes me want to punch somebody in the gut. I didn’t realize I was such a wuss for drinking Diet Dr Pepper, which I actually like, but with those extra calories, I can finally own up to my manhood. 

“Dr Pepper 10. It’s not for women.”

This is this the world our sons are born into. With so much emphasis on the equality of the sexes, and all the “trans,” as it were: -vestite,  -sexual, -gender, in my lifetime, we have finally found the distinct difference: 10 calories. 

Except, we fathers create the reality of what it means to be a man with our sons. Imitation being as strong as it is, there are alternatives.

Smoking cigars, drinking beer, and watching MMA? Nope, mom can do this, too. 

How about treating our wives as precious? This is a good place to start. A real manly man adores his wife and makes no qualms about it.

Why?

How?

Friday.

Greg and David just celebrated their 20^th birthday yesterday. We started Saturday night at Cheesecake Factory, and then back home for cake. Every year, more candles (thank you, Captain Obvious), and with twins, 20 makes 40 (thank you, Captain Arithmetic).

Sunday, the official day, the boys wake up and we exchange hugs and happy birthdays.  Then we recall the morning of their 18^th birthday. Memorable for two reasons...

The first thing we remember is that I wake up before everyone else, and go to the gym. After working out, I get in my Ford Explorer. There is a BMW rich man’s car parked next to me. It is half parked next to my spot and half in the spot behind him. So, when I pull out and turn right, I cut it too close and clip his front bumper!

Not a scratch on the Explorer, of course, but there is a small dent in the front panel of the Beemer. I leave a note on his car.

“People are watching me write this and they think I am leaving you my personal information. But, actually I am writing to say that’s what you get for taking up two spots for your fancy car.”

Only kidding. I tell the owner to go visit the front desk.

So, it’s back to the gym, giving the guy at the front desk all my information. There is actually a prewritten form for just this situation. What did I learn? Two things.

1.  My driving skills are suspect when I can get in an accident from a dead stop in a parking lot.

2. When you are driving an 80/ 90K car, your front bumper getting dinged costs more than 10K to fix. I know, because I saw our insurance premiums go up after that. Now it’s been two years, so I think we are back to normal. 

The second memorable thing for the boys about their 18^th birthday, is when I greeted Greg with a punch in the sternum. He looks at me with his “what the heck” stare. I say one word.

“Misdemeanor.”

As in, “You have just turned 18 and now if I hit you it will no longer be felony child abuse, but only a misdemeanor.”

We laugh about this, but I really don’t hit my kids. Really. Do not take this as evidence that I strike the boys. Actually, they used to hit me once in a while. Parental abuse. But, it was only in the arm because they are playing that stupid “Slug Bug” game. You know where you punch someone in the arm when you see a Volkswagen Beetle.  “Slug Bug yellow!”

We don’t play this anymore because when I stopped participating, I was getting hit all the time. That’s a perfect game for sons to play with their father. They get to hit you, knowing you won’t hit them back. I guess it’s a good substitute for patricide, but I don’t want any part of it. It’s time to stop.

Instead of hitting them myself to make them stop, I give them my “mean dad” Bruce Willis-scowl. This proves sufficient. No more “Slug Bug” as far as I am concerned. But, there might come a day when I resurrect the game, if only once. I’ll scream, “Slug Bug blue!” and haul off and coldcock one of them.

That’ll teach ‘em...

(Now, really, you know I am not going to do this, right? I don't hit the boys nor advocate this kind of violent behavior.)

For most of human history, the future of sons was usually connected to their fathers. At around age 12, a boy began to apprentice in a trade with his father. If dad was a farmer, the son was a farmer. Dad is a carpenter, the son is a carpenter. You get the picture.

The biggest dream of any father was that his son would take his work to the next level. Farm more land or get a greater return on the crops. Expand the family business.

There were always exceptions to this practice of sons apprenticing with their fathers, but most often dads simply dreamed of their sons being a bigger and better version of themselves. Not so anymore.

With the industrial revolution, work becomes more than farming and trade. Factory work, and the entire infrastructure to make manufacturing possible, is not a place for apprentices. Sons certainly could follow their dads doing the same work, but not working alongside from the beginning.

Dads begin to have other dreams for their sons. In fact, a common dream for fathers becomes one of hoping their sons don’t follow in their footsteps, but make more out of their lives than what they did. This is often the case today. Sons are encouraged to do better in school, including making sure to go to college, or the “right” college.

Another twist to the "son doing better than dad" story is in leisure activities. Fathers work with their sons from toddler on in some sport or some hobby that dad was involved in, or wishes he had been involved in. Go to any park in America on any Saturday (or more recently, Sunday, and weekday nights for practice) and see this firsthand. Sports, from four/five year olds on, has become an American phenomenon. 

This becomes the classic scenario of dad working with his 3-year-old son to hit that golf ball, throw that baseball, kick that soccer ball, “better” than the other 3-year-old. Of course, there is always a price to pay. 

Living under constant supervision by adults is not the same as apprenticeship. Sons aren’t learning alongside their dads, as much as being observed and subconsciously graded by their dads as to how advanced they are compared to other sons their age. And creativity and imagination don’t function well when your childhood time is constantly spent under the supervision of adults. Even “creative” playtime is often overseen and structured by adults! Obviously the advent of the preschool movement becomes an influencing factor in all of this for younger children.

 Also, consider the whole concept of leadership development.  It’s difficult for sons to lead anything when dads are in charge of the activity. It is a challenge to see any son naturally rise to leadership when every step of the way adults are stressing concepts like "fairness" and “everybody gets their turn.” 

While these are certainly admirable rules to live by, the way they are interpreted, again, by adults, makes it difficult for kids to practice leadership. Interesting, at the same time, there is often talk of a leadership vacuum in our younger generations. Well, where would anyone learn leadership in today’s adult- controlling environment? 

Now, in all of this, who doesn’t instinctually know there is room for change here? Who doesn’t say or think at one time of another, “It’s hard for kids to just be kids anymore”? Quickly though, even this sentiment will disappear as children raised in this environment are now raising their own children in this environment. I'm afraid we will not know a time when the world of adult supervision was not the norm.