How To Lose Without Losing The Fire

I began to be concerned the day my son took a running start and dove to the floor, kicking and wailing and screaming “No!” The son in question is 12 years old. He was reacting to losing a video game.

Marlon is an affable kid most of the time; he has dimpled cheeks, a magic smile and many talents. But God help you if you ever find yourself between this child and victory. When the goal is in sight or the game is on the line, something changes in him. His lips purse, his body grows taut, his eyes become armored slits.

Marlon is driven. Marlon is intense. Marlon is impatient with childhood, hates losing like most people hate cancer.

Marlon scares me.

I believe he would scare a linebacker.

I tell him he needs to slow down because at the rate he’s going, he’ll be bald at 20, have his first heart attack at 25 and his first ex-wife at 30. He laughs, and so do I, but it’s not funny.

I was the one who had made him throw a tantrum on the floor that day. My sin was winning the game. I like playing against Marlon because I like competition, and he’s the best. We always play video basketball, and I almost always walk out of the room a broken man. Almost every night, the boy cleans my clock.

But once in a while, the gods smile and I manage to squeeze out a victory. When this happens, the sense of triumph is mitigated by the fact that my son is over there slapping his skull, yelling at the game and writhing in agony.

He imbues each missed shot and flubbed pass with terrible significance, as if his whole self were riding on what the scoreboard says when the clock ticks zero. It’s not important, I keep telling him. We’re supposed to be having fun here; it’s only a game. He doesn’t seem to understand.

“What happens if you lose?” I asked him the other day. “The world still turns, you still have your health, you still eat your dinner, your parents still love you. So what happens?”

“Nothing,” he conceded glumly.

“So, in essence, you’re getting all worked up over nothing?”

He gave me a helpless look. “I just hate to lose,” he said.

What scares me is not just that Marlon is a poor loser, although he is. He scares me because he is so obsessive, because he lacks the ability to let go. He scares me because he pushes and pushes and pushes until he renders victory joyless and defeat an unspeakably personal failure.

He scares me because he reminds me of me.

The old me. The me who worked 16 hours a day, seven days a week. The me who ate at his desk, balancing his plate on one hand, tapping a computer keyboard with the other. The me who woke up one day, sick with the fear that something precious was passing me by. My kids all seemed older than they should have. I had been pushing myself so hard, for so long, that it had become second nature. I no longer could remember what I was doing it for.

I still live at the desk, but I give myself permission to get away now and then for a walk around the block or dinner with my family.

I’ve learned that those are the important things in any given day.

How do you explain this to a 12-year-old? The question challenges my parenting prowess. I just asked Marlon to take a week off from all competition, but I know that won’t solve anything. I’m not sure what will.

When I look at him, I find myself torn.

I don’t want him to lose the fire he has. One day, it will take him to great heights.

But he needs to learn - I must find a way to teach him - to pick his spots. Sometimes, it’s necessary to push and drive and demand more of yourself than you thought you had. Sometimes, you have to go flat-out, lay it all on the line, fight for the victory at all costs.

But sometimes, too, you have to cut yourself some slack. Sometimes, you have to give yourself a break. Sometimes, my son, it is only a game.

xxxx