This essay is the latest in a series of monthly submissions from members of the Society for the Psychological Study of Men and Masculinity, Division 51 of the American Psychological Association. SPSMM’s objective is to advance knowledge in the psychology of men through research, education, training, public policy, and improved clinical practice.
By: Chen Z. Oren, Ph.D.
The recent Nike commercial with Tiger Woods and the voice of his late father strikes a chord. We are reminded of the significance of fathers. As a psychologist, I work with many dads who take pride in and also struggle with being a father. In honor of Father’s Day, I would like to offer some ideas for becoming a happier, more involved father.
Fathers have always had an important role in the family, but the demands on fathers have exploded over the last generation or two. From a father’s role being limited to income earner, fathers are now expected to provide, and also to be nurturing and supportive of their partners and children, involved in their children’s school and sports, good role models, caretakers, and so on. A unique situation is created with this shift in expectations and fathers can feel a little frustrated as they juggle different roles without much training. Boys are generally taught from a very young age to be tough, competitive, and not show feelings (and definitely don’t cry). What background do most men have to be good fathers? When you ask fathers, a majority say they did not have good role models. Almost 2/3 report that they can not use anything from how they were fathered.
I have found that most fathers welcome some coaching about being a dad. Here are some tips:
1) Recognize the positive benefits of being involved, not only for the kids and partner, but for you.
While it is true that children with involved fathers are more confident and do better in school, being an integral part of your family leads to a better you. Good fathers engage in less risky behaviors – I had a father decide to quit smoking so he could be around to walk his daughter down the aisle. Involved fathers take better care of themselves – get that pain checked out or stop putting off going to the dentist. When you are involved with your family, you are likely to be more physically active and happier too.
2) Ask for help and support from your partner.
Ask your partner to recognize your efforts of being involved. Allow yourself to ask how to do things you are not sure of. Ask to be respected when you try new things with your children. Fathers who feel supported are more involved with their kids and are more confident in their parenting.
3) See yourself as important to the next generation. How do you want your children to think about you today and in the future? What do you want them to say about you as their father? What do you want them to learn from you? What will your legacy be? Allow your answers to guide your daily interactions with your family.
I’ve never heard clients say that their father tried too hard to be part of the family, and no man has told me that he wished he was distant from his children. Focus on what you do well and bring your strengths and passions home for your kids, for your partner, and for yourself.
Happy Father’s Day
Chen Z. Oren, Ph.D., licensed psychologist and professor in the Clinical Psychology Doctoral Program, Phillips Graduate Institute, Encino, California. His main area of expertise is the psychology of men. Dr. Oren is a counseling psychologist with a private practice in Westlake Village, California. He works with men, women, and couples, and facilitates a men’s group. He is an active member of APA’s Division 51, the Psychological Study of Men and Masculinity, and currently serves as the division treasurer. With his wife, Dora Chase Oren, Ph.D., he co-edited Counseling Fathers (Routledge) , a book that bridges the gap between fathers and professional helpers.
Notes by Tom Matlack on two amazing school visits.
Julio, James and I visited two schools for at-risk boys in Dorchester –– Epiphany School and Dorchester Youth Academy. Eighty-four middle school boys and girls attend Epiphany 12 hours a day, 6 days a week in an effort to break the cycle of poverty through education. It has Episcopal affiliation and is an amazing program and physical structure. Epiphany admits most students by lottery (younger siblings are generally admitted automatically), while 20% of students are referred from the state foster care system. About 60% of graduates have gone on to college after high school, nearly twice the national rate of their peers from low-income families.
The Dorchester Youth Academy serves kids who have been thrown out of school. Some are already in trouble with the law. The boys all read the book and were frankly the most positive reviewers of the book we have ever had. “That thing was MAD good!”
We talked to around 50 boys, and when I asked the teachers at both schools how many had fathers in their lives, the answer was less than 10%. “You can count it on one hand”, one teacher said.
At Epiphany School, the students had taken Julio’s essay and pulled out passages and posted on big boards, along with the boys responses to those passages. When we arrived, they showed us what they had written. I was profoundly moved by how much they took seriously what we had to say.
As always, James and I did our best but Julio was truly the star. The boys were shouting his name while we were still in the parking lot at both schools. It was like we were traveling with a rock star. They had us all sign their books. But above all, Julio’s message was inspiring and blunt and on point.
At Dorchester Youth Academy, the students wrote essays after our visit. Here are some things that the boys said they learned after hearing us speak:
“I’m going to let people help me instead of taking matters into my own hands.”
“Don’t always try to be the money man . If you want to be the money man, make it slow, hard, & safe instead of fast , easy , & dangerous. And also, “make the money, don’t let the money make you.”
“I learned the streets isn’t going anywhere. The streets, will always be there, but will school be?”
“Do Good. Don’t screw up & if you do screw up or mess up really bad, be ready to FIX or handle what ever the consequences may be.”
This is probably a cliche answer, but my biggest influence was my dad. He would pull me aside with little tips on what it takes to “be a man.” I specifically remember when he taught me how to shake a man’s hand…”Squeeze just enough to have a presence, but not enough to challenge.” To this day, I feel bad when I shake a person’s hand and can tell instantly that they weren’t taught this rule. Other than my father, I would say Bruce Willis, Bill Murray. Oh, and Sully from Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman — that guy could throw a tomahawk like nobody’s business.
2. Has romantic love shaped you as a man?
Hell, yeah. When I was a much younger, and a much more hopeless romantic, I used to think that a failed relationship meant that I, personally, had failed in some capacity. Now I realize how many life lessons I’ve learned from those experiences. For instance, I would never know how to cook cornish hens if it wasn’t for a girl!
3. What two words describe your dad?
Smart ass
4. How are you most unlike him?
We’re similar in a lot of ways. But I’d have to say spelling. My dad is a terrible speller, and I’m pretty awesome at it.
5. From which of your mistakes did you learn the most?
I was really passive when I was growing up. Like, beyond laid back. Almost even apathetic. I didn’t really set any goals for myself, and just kind of floated along. Now I’m more involved, a little more assertive, and overall more confident. I think back on what I could have accomplished if I had prompted to myself to be a bit more motivated.
6. What word would the women in your life use to describe you, and is it accurate?
Umm, in no particular order, I’ve gotten — amazing, silly, stubborn, thoughtful, and dork. And yes, all true. Oh! and humble…yeah, definitely humble.
7. Who is the best dad you know, and how does he earn that distinction?
Again, probably a common answer, but it would be my own. He loves his kids, which is always important. But most of all, he taught me to appreciate the little things in life. Sitting next to a campfire, the art of making a really epic sandwich, a cold beer after a hard day of work outside in the sun. I think I’m a much happier person because of all that little stuff.
8. Have you been more successful in public or private life?
I feel pretty good in both cases. There’s always more work to be done on both sides, but I’m in a good spot right now. I have a job that I actually enjoy going to, and along the way I’ve met some really amazing people. I haven’t settled down to raise a family yet or anything…but that just sounds too crazy right now. In fact, just writing that phrase freaked me out a little.
9. When was the last time you cried?
About six or seven months ago. I was at the tail end of three 16 hour shifts, and just broke down for about 3 minutes. It was a good time.
10. What advice would you give teenage boys trying to figure out what it means to be a good man?
First of all, nobody is paying attention to you nearly as much as you think they are. Just do your thing, try to be kind, and eventually it’ll all fall into place.
Bonus: What is your most cherished ritual as a guy?
In general, I’m not a very ritualistic person. But one thing that I need to do every day is play guitar. It’s less a ritual and more of a necessity.
Bio:What’s up? I’m a 29 year old audio engineer at a post-production studio in Boston MA, known as Soundtrack (www.soundtrackgroup.com). We work on radio and tv projects involving everything from recording vo and mixing, to sound design and original music production. I also play guitar in a band known as Rocket Rocket (www.rocket-rocket.com, site currently under construction). In my free time, I enjoy eating bacon, playing with dogs, and ripping 80s metal guitar solos while riding on a dragon.
The metal net snapped as the basketball hit it squarely with plenty of backspin. Shirt off, I had launched the ball during a friendly early morning game of horse with my 11-year-old son. His hair was surfer-blond like mine, only with a smattering of red hues. The court had to be one of very few in the country that had such a commanding view of the Pacific; right on the beach. The hills of Laguna Beach rose directly out of the ocean at an almost impossibly steep pitch, with homes held up by stilts hanging out over the cliff.
“That’s game, brother,” I said, putting my sweaty arm around my boy. “We gotta get you packed up.”
“Just a little longer, dad?”
“Nah, Seamus. We really have to get going.”
We walked down to the wet sand. Big waves boomed and rushed at us. A couple of surfers paddled in the distance. The beach was still empty, except for early morning walkers and a group of older women doing martial arts in slow motion silence. I looked at the ladies, wondering why I had never seen this daily ritual back east.
My son, ex-wife, current wife, 13 year-old daughter by the first marriage, and 5 year-old son by the second–we all lived within a mile of each other back in Boston. Together with Elena, my second wife, I had rented a house for three weeks in order to escape the thick snow, now turned to dirty slush. Whereas I had been less than successful in my personal life, I had made enough money to travel to pretty much wherever I wanted.
Seamus was a head shorter than I was, but we shared more than an abundance of surfer-dude blond hair. We were both long and lean and today we walked with a similar casual gait, toes pointed outward, staring into space. Neither of us was talking.
As we approached the rented SUV, the quiet was broken by a loud “Pssssssst!” Water sprayed up in the air not more than fifty yards offshore.
“Look at that, Seamus!” I said, as I squinted to see through the glare emanating from the surface of the Pacific Ocean.
Just as Seamus looked up, Nikes and basketball in hand, he saw the whale breach. “Cool, dad! That thing’s HUGE!”
“I’ve never seen one that close to shore,” Seamus continued.
“Neither have I. March must be some sort of migration season for them.”
We watched for a few minutes longer. After filling its lungs, the whale disappeared into the depths of the clear green ocean.
In the car, I couldn’t help thinking about the hours I’d spent as a boy with my own dad, an English Professor, reading Moby Dick out loud and being dragged to whaling museums in Nantucket and New Bedford. I had learned about scurvy, the monotony of being at sea for months, and the bravery of men in tiny boats attempting to kill giant beasts. I could see the spool of rope, just as my dad had described it, spinning as the whale ran. The rope tore down the center of the whaling boat, men on either side rowing to try to keep up with the beast, and one sailor whose only job was to pour water on the spool to keep it from catching fire. In the car, if I inhaled deeply, I could almost smell the stench of blubber being boiled when the battle was over.
Beyond the mythic men of whaling, however, seeing the whale so close reminded me of my father’s fascination with the animals themselves. As a child, my dad had been nicknamed “Whale” for his ability to stay under water for minutes at a time. Sometimes, in the car, he would listen to eerie recordings of screeching whales communicating with one another. As a Quaker, my dad had been fascinated by the violence of whaling, just like he had become a Civil War buff; as if his pacifism led him to see the noble flaw in men who killed man or beast out of fear or hatred or for survival. However, it was the whales he loved most deeply; it was of them that he seemed most in awe.
That’s what I was thinking about as I drove Seamus up the hill. I tried to remember the last time I had talked to my dad about anything of real importance. And I couldn’t remember.
“Dad, I forgot my ball down on the beach,” Seamus mumbled, as we pulled into the driveway. “I’m really sorry.”
I fought off the impulse to snap. “It’s okay. We’ll go looking for it on the way out of town,” I said.
“Hopefully, the neighborhood kids didn’t take it. That was a really nice leather ball.”
With Seamus’s bags finally packed, it was time to head to LAX. He wasn’t looking forward to going home, back to school and the cold, but at least he could focus on and look forward to the NCAA tournament. Just before leaving, Seamus and I sat down at the computer one last time and logged into my Yahoo account. I had agreed to let him enter one set of brackets into a pool run by an investment banking buddy. The entry fee was $100, with the winner taking home a few thousand bucks. I had agreed to front him the money on the condition that half of any winnings would go to charity. Seamus pulled up the pool. The sweet sixteen would start today and his entry was currently in fifth place.
“That’s it, dad. That’s the winning bracket right there! Boston College is going to go all the way this year!”
“I sure hope so,” I said, looking at my watch. “We gotta get going now. We miss this flight, we’re both in big trouble. And we gotta find that lost ball down on the beach.”
We had both become accustomed to goodbyes. As father and son, we had long ago reached a male understanding that a certain amount of emotion was a good thing. Too much was bad–very bad, in fact. The ease of being together could easily turn ugly if the pain of our situation was spoken out loud. We didn’t live together and never would. This was as good as it was going to get. We both knew this, but never wanted to say it out loud–as if the silence would somehow diminish the hurt.
“There it is!” Seamus shouted when we pulled into the lot on the beach. “Those guys are playing with my ball.” A full-court game was in progress, shirts and skins, with high school aged kids running hard; one bent over catching his breath while a foul call was hotly disputed. Rubber basketballs had been strewn at half court in favor of the leather Spalding ball.
“Stay here,” I told Seamus, wanting to make sure that the extraction was quick and easy.
“Guys,” I said, as I approached the court, my 6′3″ frame puffed out just slightly to make sure my words were not ignored. “The ball is mine. Sorry.”
The reaction was immediate–leather flying into my hands. “Thanks,” I muttered, before getting back into the car and handing Seamus the lost ball.
As we drove to the airport, I spoke brightly about the tournament and about Seamus’s sixth-grade team, attempting in vain to fill the void just ahead. I was, in fact, unable to fight off the impending storm cloud. I was sinking; missing my son before he had even left.
I checked Seamus in at First Class. By now, I knew the questions on the unaccompanied minor form by heart. I carefully placed Seamus’s ticket into a clear plastic pouch held in place by a string around his neck.
“How come I always feel like a jackass with this thing on, dad? How am I supposed to pick up chicks on the plane?”
Seamus asked with a wry smile.
“If the loser badge keeps the girls away for a few more years, that’d be just fine by me,” I said with a smile.
At the gate, I looked into my son’s eyes. We had waited until everyone else got on the plane before Seamus boarded. But the time had come.
“I love you Seamus,” I said, giving him a bear hug. I felt how my little baby boy had become almost a man; substantial now where before he had been so tiny and fragile. I noticed Seamus’s stuffed dog, Pal, sticking out of his backpack. Maybe he’s not all grown up just yet, I thought. For a moment, I flashed back to all the times I’d scoured my apartment to make sure that Pal had not been lost. I held onto those memories, and to Pal, as tightly as I held my son at this point.
“I love you too, dad,” Seamus said, holding on a few moments longer than usual. “I’ll text you as soon as I hit the ground at Logan.” Then he turned and walked down the jetway with one of the flight attendants. He wore leather Reef flip flops, baggy black cord shorts that reached down to his shins, and a mustard Volcom sweatshirt. Except for the basketball under his arm, he was pure surfer dude. I hadn’t had the heart to force him to change into clothes for the snowy weather predicted back east. He turned one last time to pound his chest and flash a peace sign at me, his dad, sticking two fingers in the air with a weak smile. I did the same. Then my son was gone.
Driving home from LAX, I had to again remind myself why going back to court to get equal time with my kids would be a bad idea for Seamus and his sister Kerry; why at this point I would lose; and why just loving my kids, despite the heartache of long periods of separation, was the best thing I could do. I had been kicked out of the house when Seamus was less than a year old and Kerry was just two. Despite taking a large company public, then selling it for billions, I had been a drunk and in no position to demand joint physical custody.
In the years since, I had devoted myself to becoming a decent father but had repeatedly sought legal advice regarding the way my time with my kids was doled out by my ex-wife Colleen; only to be told that changing a custody arrangement after years of precedents would require proving that it was in the best interests of the children. I had never had the courage to call Colleen on her bluff that I was a bad father and not worthy of equal custody. The arrangement ate away at me, but I hadn’t been willing to reopen the wound. Whether that was to protect the kids or to protect myself, I wasn’t sure.
In the car on the way back to Laguna Beach, I felt, along with a growing sense of loss, at least a tiny sense of relief. The visit had gone well. I always worried that Seamus would be bored or would decide he was too old to be hanging around with his dad on vacation. We had hit some amusement parks, shot hoops, eaten great food, sat in the sun, and talked. It had been fun and relaxed. I was happy to have the mission accomplished.
Elena, Cole, and I went to the playground. I climbed a huge rocket ship with my son and sat him on my lap to blast down a long slide, landing in the sand at the bottom, both of us laughing. Elena and I held hands on the way home; we were both tall and slender with blond hair. Cole urged us on from the stroller as we pushed him up the hill. “Faster daddy, faster!” Like Seamus, he had his dad’s hair. But he had his mom’s bright blue eyes.
I thought about another day at the playground. It was Father’s Day, when Seamus had been just three months old–one of the last times we had been together before the end. That day, I had a plane to catch–a private jet actually–as I was taking my company public and needed to be in London that night for a presentation. A black limousine awaited us outside the front of the house that Colleen and I had just built on a cul-de-sac in Barrington, Rhode Island. As I left, a bag containing my blue suit, white shirt, and a red tie slung over my shoulder, Colleen had ripped into me for being a shitty father. I had not responded. I’d just kept my head down as her words made their way into my heart; daggers with truth serum intended to inflict pain.
Back at the house, I finally sat down at the computer and pulled up the American Airlines website. Flight number 159 had just taken off for Boston. Seamus was in the air. I noticed that, at the top of the website, the airline was reporting delays in New York and Philadelphia, but didn’t think much of it. I went back to the TV room to watch The Backyardigans with Cole, who snuggled into my neck and quickly fell asleep. I thought about the first time I’d had Seamus overnight at my apartment; how, in a certain sense, I had been lost myself until I’d held my son in my arms, fed him a bottle, and inhaled the smell of him. That’s when I knew that being a dad was the thing I most wanted in the world; the thing that I had missed for all the deal making. By the time Elena came to check on us, we were both snoring.
I awoke with a start. The sunlight outside was already beginning to fade. My Blackberry buzzed with a new voice message. It was Colleen. I hit the voicemail button and listened.
“It’s snowing really hard here,” she started. “I know the flight took off so they must have thought it was going to be okay. But I just got off the phone with Logan and they are already down to one runway and his flight doesn’t get in for another hour and a half. I’m really worried about Seamus. Call me or email me.” Click. She had hung up abruptly, as always. But the message was troubling, even with a hefty Colleen-hysteria discount factored in.
At the computer, I pulled up the map of the United States on the American Airlines site. Flight 159 was a little dot hovering around Buffalo in western New York. When I moved the cursor to the dot and right-clicked the mouse, the flight information popped up: “Estimated time of arrival Logan Airport: 9:53 p.m.” I looked at my watch. It was just past six, west coast time, so he should be landing in forty-five minutes. I decided against returning Colleen’s call. Email was always better when dealing with an angry or scared ex-wife, even in a crisis. I typed a message on my Blackberry, saying that American Airlines had Seamus landing shortly, even though his flight was now over an hour delayed.
Thirty seconds later, Colleen replied,
“He has been circling Logan for the last hour.The plane is near Buffalo to avoid the storm until they can clear the runway. This airport is shut down completely. Even the security guys have gone home.”
That didn’t sound good. I looked out at the beautiful sunset over the Pacific Ocean. Our rental, with its expansive view, sat up high on the hill, just behind the Pacific Coast Highway. From our bed, Elena and I watched the lights of tankers passing miles offshore from one horizon to the other. Why anyone would ever leave this for snow, ice, and bitter cold wind was beyond me. I tried to remain calm as I picked up the landline to call the after-hours service at American Express Travel. I knew that trying to get through to American Airlines directly would be useless. The website was the best I was going to do as far as communicating with the airline.
“This is Jeremy at American Express emergency services. How can I help you tonight?”
“Look, I have a problem,” I said, trying to sound calm. “My son, Seamus Matlack, is on American flight 159 to Boston. He’s a minor. I am really worried about him. I’m wondering if they’re going to land.”
“That’s no fun. What a way to end spring break, huh? Let’s see what I can find out for you.”
“I’m sure he’ll be okay. He’s my oldest son.”
“I understand. Says here that his plane is headed for Hartford. The storm has passed through there already. Logan won’t be open until the morning.”
“Shit!” I said, forgetting momentarily–or perhaps no longer caring–that I was speaking to the customer service rep and not an old school friend in a bar, “Do ya think his mom can pick him up there?”
“If she can get through. Otherwise the airline will supervise him overnight; get him back to Boston first thing in the morning.”
“His mother isn’t going to let him stay by himself with strangers,” I said.
“Happens all the time, Mr. Matlack. Your son’s going to be fine.”
“He’s probably scared shitless, but let’s hope you’re right. Thanks,” I said, before hanging up.
I emailed Colleen, “FLIGHT HAS BEEN DIVERTED TO HARTFORD. YOU CAN TRY TO PICK HIM UP THERE OR THEY WILL FLY HIM HOME FIRST THING IN THE MORNING.” I hit ’send’ and waited for the shit storm to hit.
The response was terse and, thankfully, brief. “IN CAR. ON WAY TO HARTFORD.”
I went back to the computer to refresh the American Airlines screen. The dot came up over Albany. When I clicked, it showed arrival in Hartford in half an hour. I went out on the deck to look at the ocean, trying to figure out what I could possibly do 3,000 miles away from my son. I took out my Blackberry and decided to leave him a message so that he would call as soon as he landed.
I got his voicemail. “This is Seamus. Please leave me a message.”
“Seamus, it’s dad. I know your flight has been diverted to Hartford. Your mom’s on her way. She will get there as soon as she can. Call me when you can. Sorry for the hassle, but this will be fine. Love ya. Peace out, dude.” I clicked the phone off, then texted him as well, “SEAMUS. YOUR MOM IS ON HER WAY. CALL ME. DAD.”
I went back inside to watch the basketball tournament and to try to take my mind off my son. Twenty minutes later, my Blackberry was beeping again. I was hoping it was Seamus, but it was Colleen. “Shit!” I muttered to myself. Her message read, “STATE POLICE STOPPED ME ON MASS PIKE. ROAD CLOSED. HAVE TO TURN AROUND. HAVE YOU TALKED TO SEAMUS? HIS PLANE SHOULD HAVE LANDED BY NOW.”
I hit redial on my Blackberry and again got voicemail, “This is Seamus…”
“FUCK!” I shouted, slamming the phone down. For the first time, panic set in. How could I let this happen? Why the fuck hadn’t I checked the weather before putting my son on that plane? He had to be scared by now. Why wasn’t he answering his damn phone?
I went back to the computer and clicked ‘refresh.’ The dot settled on Hartford. I clicked again. The computer blinked at me, “LANDED.”
I furiously typed yet another message on my Blackberry, “CALL ME!” I went back outside to look at the Pacific Ocean and to try to talk myself down. Seamus is not dead. He’s not even sick. The airline is responsible for his safety and even though they can’t get most flights to arrive on time, this is different. They take this shit seriously. The crew members on that plane must be parents too. They must know what it’s like to have your kid stranded somewhere you can’t reach him.
I went back inside and hit redial again. “This is Seamus…”
My Blackberry rang. It was Colleen. I had to pick it up now. “What do you know?” she blurted out.
“Nothing. I haven’t been able to talk to him yet. His plane’s on the ground but he is probably just getting his luggage. This is all going to be fine, Colleen. He’ll be home in no time,” I said, trying desperately to maintain an even tone.
“I can barely see the road. Call me when you hear anything,” Colleen said before hanging up.
I went back outside on the deck and paced; then went back inside and tried to watch a tournament game that had gone into overtime. I tried to get involved in the game. I actually went back to the computer to check who Seamus had in his bracket. The phone rang.
I ran to the kitchen to pick it up. “Hey pops, you see that finish?” Seamus asked.
“Man, am I glad to hear your voice, Seamus!” I said, letting go of the pocket of air that had been buried deep in my chest all afternoon.
“No big deal, dad. They set us up at a Holiday Inn. This stewardess Annie is in the next room. She just bought me a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake. Getting ready for the Boston College tip-off. They’re going to dominate,” Seamus said.
“You’re too much, kid. Is this Annie treating you okay?”
“Definitely. You wanna talk to her?” Seamus replied.
“Please.”
“Here she is,” Seamus said. There was shuffling on the phone. A woman’s voice eventually came on.
“This is Annie. You have one special boy here, Mr. Matlack. He kept the whole crew entertained at baggage claim with his Harlem Globetrotters routine.”
“Annie, I don’t know how to thank you enough for taking such good care of my son,” I said.
“Don’t mention it. I’m a divorced parent too. I would want the same for my little girl if she got stuck somewhere. Besides, your son never panicked. He kept telling us all what a great adventure this was, when we were getting ready to poke our own eyes out with the delays.”
“Well, thanks. Can I talk to him again?”
Seamus came back on the phone and spoke in a whisper. “Dad, Annie is kind of hot.”
“Son, she sounds about twenty years older than you. Be thankful she’s takin’ such good care of you and don’t get fresh with her!” I said, in mock anger.
“I was just kidding, dad. I’ll give you a call after the Boston College game. We can watch it together on text. Let me know what you think along the way. Okay?”
“Okay. Peace out. Love ya, son.”
“Love ya too, dad.”
I then went into the TV room, turned the television off, and sat in the dark. After a few moments, I emailed Colleen. “TALKED TO SEAMUS. A-OK.”
The next morning, Cole woke us up early but Elena let me sleep. Boston College had won in a blowout. Seamus had called midway through the second half to announce the game officially over. At 10:30 in the morning, my Blackberry was buzzing again. It was an email from Colleen: “SEAMUS HOME.”
“There’s one!” Seamus shouted, pointing into the pool of salt water under the rock he had just flipped over. Cole’s little fingers grasped for the tiny hermit crab as it scurried across the sand. He caught it and placed it gently in a yellow plastic bucket, joining a dozen others.
Elena and I lounged on the beach nearby, watching the boys and holding hands. Sailboats dotted the Atlantic Ocean. Down the beach, we could see the house that we had built sitting high up on a bluff just over the Massachusetts and Rhode Island border. As a girl, Elena had come to Westport Harbor for the first time with her family. Twenty-five years later, she had convinced me to come back to rent. All her childhood friends were still there. It had become a cocoon in our lives; a home and a respite from the stormy weather.
Seamus and I swam out to a massive rock shaped like an elephant, a few hundred yards out in the ocean. For generations, kids had jumped off the head, shoulder, and rump of the elephant, then pulled themselves up and across barnacles to lay on the rock and warm up.
“Dad, I can’t believe we won four hundred bucks for our bracket. That was cool.” Seamus had finished second, only a loss in the final separating him from the grand prize. At Elena’s suggestion we had all gone to Boston Medical Center and used half the money to buy car seats for homeless moms.
“Yeah, next year we’re going all the way,” I said, getting up. I ran off the rock and plunged thirty feet into the cold, green water, coming back to the surface just in time to see my son follow my lead.
—–
Tom Matlack’s story “Lost and Found” has been adapted into a short film. Watch it here:
I believe that from the time we are very young children, everyone who holds influence over our lives, for better or worse, contributes to the core of who we are – that unique spirit within each of us made up of our ideas, perceptions, motivation and sense of faith.
On the positive side are my parents. A favorite childhood memory: I am five years old, at a parade with my dad. Always a tomboy and always wanting to emulate my war-veteran father, I wore my new Army uniform. When the Army band approached, I ran into the street and marched along with them. The band-leader called me over and put me into position as leader of the parade. I was thrilled and overjoyed.
On the negative side, a small number of nuns in parochial school left me with long-lasting feelings of fear and self-doubt. In first grade, a nun convinced my classmates and me that we were all destined to go to hell. That gave me nightmares. A third-grade teacher was returning a test when she announced to the class that I had earned a zero because I wrote my nickname, Chrissy, rather than my Christian name, Christine, on the test. In defiance, I haven’t used Christine since.
Two decades later came a catalyst. At the age of 23, I was watching the evening news when a report of a horrific car crash flashed on the screen. The reporter gestured to the badly mangled car behind him, its body an accordion. He announced that although there were fatalities, he could not say the victims’ names because their families hadn’t yet been notified. I watched, incredulous. Suppose those same families who had not yet been notified – or who perhaps just minutes ago heard about the deaths of their loved ones – were watching this same newscast?
It was a chilling thought to me, one that kept me from falling asleep that night. At 4 AM, I got out of bed and called the station manager to ask how the network could have done something so unconscionable as to run that footage. The network representative told me that while he understood my perspective that the event represented someone’s personal tragedy, this kind of footage is why people turn on the local news. Horror sells.
His answer touched off a surge of soul-searching for me. Could he be right? Was the media so insensitive to the families of those people killed in the accident simply because it’s what people want to see when they turn on the news? Why couldn’t there be more positive stories – stories that would inspire people and encourage them that the world is at times a good and uplifting place? Wouldn’t that sell, too?
I undertook a personal campaign back then, asking everyone whose paths crossed mine whether they agreed that viewers wanted the media to cover horrible stories — or whether they would watch news broadcasts that featured upbeat accounts instead. Most people admitted they didn’t know whether those stories would capture their attention in the same way. I felt crushed at what I believed to be society’s overall sense of inhumanity. Unsure how I could change such a prevalent sentiment, I tried to bury my discouragement. Discouragement turned to a restlessness that took many years to resolve.
About five years ago, I reached a point in my career where I felt compelled to pause and reassess. At that time, I had worked successfully as a personal coach for ten years. I loved the work, but something was missing. In my job, I could reach out and help one person at a time, but given what a vast place the world is and how damaging it can be to so many people, that didn’t seem sufficient. I wanted to touch the masses.
And yet the negative voice inside my head kept pushing me back, telling me I was an idiot for thinking I could have any kind of lasting effect on society. My heart, speaking with the pure and simple voice of my soul, said I needed to do it; my head, resounding with self-inflicted negativity, said there was no way I was capable or even worthy of making such an effort.
All my life, I’ve been an NFL fan. My dad was a football player and coach, my four brothers all played football, and from the time I was born, there were always football players in the house. With NFL games as a constant backdrop, I couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of using NFL players as role models. I was convinced that children growing up today have a daunting lack of role models to look to as good examples of how to live a life governed by ethics and values. I believe that we adults need to embrace and comfort our children. We need to coach them and let them see for themselves how important they are. We need to help them find their passion. We need to create opportunities for children to recognize, experience, respect and honor their talents. We need to instill in our kids the importance of serving others. Only if we do this can we expect them to follow a compelling vision of what’s possible.
So I pushed past my fears and self-doubts. With the unquestioning brashness of the little girl who once led the Army band, I traveled to NFL corporate headquarters to share my vision with officials there.
And the NFL leaders listened. They heard my vision; they agreed in its merit. They suggested I approach each of the NFL’s 32 teams individually and talk to their player development directors. Easy, I thought. With a 2” binder in which I’d created a sheet for each of the 32 teams, I began calling. All I had to do was communicate my excitement about using my personal coaching skills to evoke from the players their ability to be magnificent role models on and off the field.
And then I ran into a roadblock. It wasn’t that the player development directors hated my idea; it was just that they didn’t buy into it with the passion I believed was needed in order for me to see it through. Though some were marginally interested, as a body they were committed to sticking with the NFL’s internal programs, which emphasize personal growth and development against a backdrop of professional football. They didn’t think their players had time alongside that program to in other ways.
I felt as if my glorious vision had been quashed. It was discouraging. I indulged in some self-pity and a sense of defeat.
But then I stopped feeling sorry for myself and took a more positive tack. Brainstorming with a colleague, I decided to itemize the points I’d distilled thus far from the project, and together we came up with this list:
1. There are a lot of magnificent role models in the NFL, but few know about their successes.
2. The NFL may have the biggest stage in the world.
3. If these wonderful players were on that stage, they could make this world a better place, especially for kids.
4. This is the work that has been waiting for me all along – get these wonderful players on their worldwide stage. Focus on being the catalyst and the coaching will follow.
Taking a step back from that initial wave of idealistic passion, reorganizing my thoughts and marshalling my energy gave the project the boost it needed get finally get under way. This is how Insightful Player was born. I reached out to all the teams again, but this time I went through their PR departments. I proposed writing feature stories about their high-integrity players for the sole purpose of lifting the spirit of their worldwide audience, especially kids. A lot of teams were excited by this vision. A few insisted I have placement for these stories before they would allow me access to their players. And a few teams never responded to my attempts at contact.
At this point, I’ve profiled twenty-two players as part of the Insightful Player project. Each of those men is a remarkable human being and a magnificent role model. Many of them believe firmly in the value of telling their stories, especially those that involve overcoming hardships, in hopes of helping today’s youth see their way to a clearer path to success. Several of them are now using the same skills of perseverance and commitment developed as football players to commit their lives to a greater purpose by starting a charitable foundation or community outreach program.
Already, I myself have learned so much from these players. The farther I get into the Insightful Player campaign, the more I believe my original vision has tremendous potential: to get this message to a much wider audience. It’s that belief that carries me onward as I promote what I now believe to be my life’s work. I still think back to that night thirty years ago when I watched the evening news and thought that surely we can prosper as a society from being exposed to more positive messages, and this is how I hope to make that happen.
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Chrissy Carew is Founder and Head Coach of Insightful Player, LLC. The Insightful Player™ campaign is an uplifting series of stories, interviews and programs featuring high integrity people such as current and former NFL players. Each player shares their personal message of hope to inspire all, especially kids. www.insightfulplayer.com
The metal net snapped as the basketball hit it squarely with plenty of backspin. Shirt off, I had launched the ball during a friendly early morning game of horse with my 11-year-old son. His hair was surfer-blond like mine, only with a smattering of red hues. The court had to be one of very few in the country that had such a commanding view of the Pacific; right on the beach. The hills of Laguna Beach rose directly out of the ocean at an almost impossibly steep pitch, with homes held up by stilts hanging out over the cliff. 
