A Night Out with My Parents

Tonight marked a monumental occasion in my life. It was the first time that I realized my parents are getting old.

My dad had an extra ticket to the TU basketball game. He and my mom were already going. And I suppose they felt like it would be a good thing to do for their son...lift his spirits a bit. And lift em it did. I am thankful for every waking moment I have with them, even when I notice in the moments, that they're beginning to show signs of aging.

So I park at my house and ride with them another half mile to a vacant lot a few blocks from the stadium. From there we make the jaunt, casually observing all the elderly people entering into the arena. I think my mom even made a comment about it. But she used the term, "middle-aged and above." Her exact words were, "Sean, have you noticed there aren't that many people your age here. Mainly middle-aged and above?" I smiled. Nodded. Agreeing.

In all honesty, if a foreigner who had no clue about basketball and why it is so popular in America, would have happened upon the game tonight, he could have mistaken it for a geriatric convention. That's my take. And I'll tell you why...

We arrived 15 minutes early. We're never early to anything but sporting events. It cracks me up. So we take our seats. And slowly the crowd filters in around us. And elderly gentlemen sits directly to our left, along with a middle-aged couple in front of us, and an extremely old man a few seats to our right. If my memory recalls correctly, 2 out of those 4 people had hearing aids on.

So I turn to ask my dad a question and he asks me to repeat myself. "Huh?" he yells in my direction. "Son, you'll have to speak louder, I left my ears at home because I can't stand how loud it is in here with them on!" He says these words to me with the diction of a grammar teacher to a foreign exchange student. Precisely. Loudly.

I get a small chuckle out of it. And turn to him saying, "Don't worry about it dad. It wasn't that important."

And then then it's time to introduce the players. And the crowd gets up and cheers. Yeah for our team. Booooo for your team. And as is typical in basketball games, each player from both teams gets introduced as if they've signed up for a dating service. And now...starting at guard. Great with the ball. Even better in the air... weighing 180 lbs. standing at 5' 9"....(insert player's name).

"Five feet. He's only 5 feet tall? No...that can't be right. How is he ever gonna be able to shoot?" My dad huffs. "Mom, have you ever seen anyone so short?" he questions. But she wasn't paying attention. As he and I were sitting down taking in the action like cool customers, she was standing up giving her best rendition of that school spirit that follows her to every basketball, football, and card game.

I lean over and tell my dad that there's no way a player on the court could be 5 feet. The cheerleaders (except one) all look to be at least 5'2" or taller. "The guy on the loud speaker said 5'9". Not 5'," I say with a patiently weary smile.

And then a rather portly man sits right in front of us, but hesitates first before making his way all the way to the chair, to pull out his large bag of twizzlers from his back pocket (which he proceeds to munch on for the rest of the first half). I make a mental note of this right then and plan to bring it up to my dad while the cheerleaders are making sure everyone on the front row is paying attention during half time. I remember it so I can have something funny to talk to my Dad about other than why he chose to take his ears out before the game and how that irritates Mom because he talks so loud without them in.

And then my precious Father is concerned for my Mom because the portly gentlemen is directly in her line of sight. Dad let me know it a few times. And asked her if she would like to move or switch seats with him on more than one occasion. But she spoke back to him saying..."No, no...I'm fine."

"What?"

"I'm fine. I can see both goals Ok. That's all that really matters anyway."

And with about 3 minutes left before half time, I feel the urge to get up and walk around...to catch some scenery...to do what guys like to do the most. Observe my surroundings. Stake out the place. And I figure it might be too loud at half-time to tell my dad the story about watching the portly man eat the entire bag of twizzlers before mid-way through the first half. Nothing was really happening right now. No loud noises. So I get close to his ear and explain it.

"He ate the whole bag of what? Twizzlers!" He exclaims. "Shuuuuush, Dad!" I urge.

By then, I fear the damage was done. There is no way our friend in front of us didn't hear my Dad yelp the word twizzler. And even if he somehow missed that one, he must have overheard him and my Mother talk about how hard it was for them to see the game. Why? Because a few minutes later, with only a minute left before half time, the portly man switched seats with his wife. Quickly. Without warning.

I was sooo embarrassed. Embarrassed for my parents. For myself. But mainly for him. At that moment I felt about as big as a peanut. And as rotten as spilled milk. That feeling is terrible to have. Especially after you've eaten Dippin Dots when you know you're not supposed to, because you're lactose intolerant (which is what I am and what I did).

So I made up an excuse to move up a few rows during the intermission. Encouraged them to come with me because higher up you can see more. And of course, you aren't all scrunched up.

And then it was...right there...when we were secluded from the others in the nose-bleed section of TU's Champman Stadium, that it dawned on me. I have to start watching where I take my parents in public. It was the oddest feeling to have, mind you. Because I still remember vividly my Mother calling me on the phone, just a few years ago, explaining how complicated my Grandma had become in public...blurting out things without thinking...being irritable....yada yada yada..

And now, my friends. The tables haven't completely turned. But I notice them shifting, ever so slightly.

I now realize, I have older than middle-aged parents. Mine are at the precipice of their golden years.

And it's memories like these that I hope I never forget. Because some might say the value of your life is all about the number of memorable stories you can tell about the ones you love the most.

This is just one of those memories about two of the ones I love the most. I have others to tell...