My husband is generally not someone who needs an awful lot from anyone else. In fact, he’s usually the one being called upon by a multitude of folks for help with myriad things. He’s an effective problem-solver, a calm-in-the-storm voice of reason, a task-oriented, get ’er done type person, and an instinctive leader in all aspects of his life.
So (whether he likes it or not), he is oftentimes faced with people placing their issues at his feet. On any given day, he could come home from a long day at work to a leaky faucet in the guest bathroom, an urgent need from a staff member of his dental practice, third-grade math homework help that exceeds his wife’s brain capacity, and a friend who wants his after-hours opinion on a chipped canine. He tackles all of it with great calm and without complaint and somehow still manages to reserve some time (and even enthusiasm) for after-dinner catch with our son or a game of Uno with our daughter.
Heck, he even does his own laundry. I’m fairly sure I’ve mentioned that before, but it’s important.
I witness all of this and admittedly sometimes feel envious of his to-do list accomplishment expertise and self-sufficiency. I also feel a little guilty that I am oftentimes the one piling even more on his already full plate. But every time I ask him what I can do to help, he always replies with, “I’m good. No, seriously. I’m good.”
And so, I try to do little things. Like make his favorite dinners, roll the trash cans out and in before he gets home, and not watch ahead on our favorite Netflix show when he, exhausted from a day of doing everything, falls asleep before me without fail. I’ve wondered to myself what it would be like for my stalwart husband to actually need something himself for a change.
And then it happened.
Several months prior to this fateful Sunday evening, my husband set a personal goal. He vowed to himself that before his 40th birthday (in July), he would come out of organized soccer retirement (a sport that he has played since he could walk) and rejoin a competitive, adult-league team. To prepare for this, he would begin a daily cardio regimen, tweak his diet, and stretch. Stretch a lot. He started strong with this new routine, carving out time to run after work and on weekends and foregoing fast food for a balanced, packed lunch. But as it often does, life got in the way. The runs got fewer and further between, and there were a lot of days when it was just too easy to swing through the McDonald’s drive-thru on his short lunch break. The season started, and he went into it with his trademark confidence and optimism, telling me that if he did get injured, he would make sure it wasn’t his hands.
The kids and I enjoyed watching his team play its first few games. We cheered hard for Daddy, and I breathed a sigh of relief each time he popped up after being on the receiving end of a hard slide tackle. And then, four games into the season, his luck ran out. He managed to get in some last-minute toe touches and a couple of decent quad stretches before the game, but, in retrospect, probably not quite enough for an almost-middle-aged dude with more over-the-years ankle sprains than he can count, who’d taken a hiatus from soccer and was at least a decade older than some of his competitors. His team had only one sub that day, which meant that the running would be more and the breaks would be less. And, for the first time that season, his dad had come to watch him play.
With several minutes left in the first half, I saw my husband signal for a sub and jog off the field with a noticeable hitch in his gait. He came over to the sideline to retrieve his water bottle and waved off my concern, saying, “I think my Achilles is just tight. I’m fine.” I could tell he was hurting, but when another teammate needed a sub, he tagged back in. And no sooner had he resumed sprinting the field to meet a pass than he went down. And went down hard. I’ve seen my husband hit the grass many times over the years, but this was the first time that he didn’t get right up.
My father-in-law and I stood up simultaneously and peered across the field to survey his condition. We watched him crawl to the opposite sideline and collapse on his side, holding his leg. He needed help. Before I could react, his dad was halfway across the field. I watched as my father-in-law knelt to evaluate his son’s injury. Watched as he helped him to his one good foot, slung my husband’s arm over his shoulder, and bore his weight all the way across the field and parking lot to his truck.
I am happy to report that although he may (or may not, if you ask him) be officially retired from the game of soccer, my husband, true to his word to injure anything but his hands, is on the mend from a torn calf muscle and Achilles tendon. I have thought many times back to the heart-warming image of my 72-year-old father-in-law helping his 39-year-old son off the soccer field. It reminded me of the story my husband’s dad loves to tell of how many years ago little Corey Mullen requested to ride the bus to school on the first day of kindergarten, but at the last minute, he sheepishly asked if his dad could follow behind the bus in his car. I’ve heard that story a lot over the years. The first time he recounted it, I asked my father-in-law, “Well, did you do it?” His reply, “You bet I did!” Because sometimes a boy just needs his dad. Even when that boy is almost 40 years old.
Happy Father’s Day to all of you dads who do it all and then some. We love you, we appreciate you, and, yes, we need you.
