Redemption

We have two children. A girl and a boy.

One is decidedly independent and passionate about her ability to do anything and everything. Irish temperament and Italian attitude. One day… she will be Queen.

The other is deeply compassionate and notable in his ability and willingness to see the big picture. Faith and laughter guide the way. One day… he will be King.

It was more than a tad surprising when we received an email from the boy’s second-grade teacher about his behavior.

Most parents would have washed away the offense with the customary “Boys will be boys.”

Nope. Not us. We don’t roll like that.

We talked. Mostly, I talked. He listened. He accepted the consequences of his choices. He apologized to the class. He apologized to the teacher. All was well.

Two weeks later. Another email. Another outburst. The teacher was rightfully concerned for his well-being.

“He is spending too much time with another student who makes poor choices and I think that child may be a negative influence. But, you said you wanted to know if anything else happens…”

Miles is responsible for Miles. No excuses. Discipline and accountability happen at home. “We’ll take care of this tonight.”

More consequences. A few tears. His rear-end was tender. The point was clear. “If it happens again, this will happen and this will happen and this will happen. Do you have any questions?”

He fell asleep on my chest after the heaves subsided.

The next week. A phone call. “Miles said something ugly in art class…”

I left school. “I’m going to get my son.” The drive to Vienna Elementary School was longer than I expected. I checked in at the office and headed toward the lunch room.

The look on his face was nothing less than sheer terror when he turned the corner and ran into my legs.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“My behavior?”

“Get your stuff and say goodbye to your teacher.”

His head tilted with that confused-dog look.

“I told you last time… you are not allowed to stay in school if you cannot be a good person and act responsibly. Your time here is done. Say goodbye.”

He gathered his belongings, hugged his teacher and followed me to the car.

It wasn’t the best afternoon of his life.

Everything in me wanted to rewind the day and give him a do-over. But, better to have the conversation now than to wait until he is fifteen and realize I am too late.

I drove to the police station for a sidewalk conversation about responsibility and consequences. We circled the block housing the jail in downtown Winston-Salem. Off to the prison on Cherry Street for a lasting image of felons playing basketball. Our last stop was the Juvenile Detention Center on Shattalon Drive. I drove to the gate, stopped our car and opened his door.

“The choice is yours. I know you can, but will you behave? Will you speak respectfully? You are responsible for you. There is not a next time. This is unacceptable and it will not continue. Are you going in or are we going home?”

The boy I love more than life sat in the front seat and sobbed uncontrollably. The lesson learned.

We went home. Vikki was standing at the door. Our son had cried so much he could hardly walk into the house.

“Beyond Scared Straight: The Griffin Experience.”

“You will write a letter of apology to your teacher and the class. You will wash the tables in the art room. You will not be a ball boy at anymore Wake Forest games this season. You will not participate in Weed Whackers. The television and every electronic-anything are gone. Don’t ask. And you are officially done with basketball at West Central for this year. You have let down your teammates. Due to the choices you made, they will have to play without you.”

And a spanking.

He had no more tears to shed.

It was the worst afternoon of my life.

Miles fell asleep. I cried and cried and cried. Vikki and Sophia ate dinner alone.

“Boys will be boys” is crap. Parenting is not always trips to Tweetsie and Halloween candy.

A boy who behaves inappropriately and speaks disrespectfully and consistently makes poor choices will grow to be a man that does the exact same thing.

He returned to school. He called the basketball office at Wake and resigned from his ball boy responsibilities. He called his coach at WCCC and explained why he could not return. He watched me delete the Weed Whacker registration from our computer. Eventually, the television and the other electronics were reinstated. The art tables were cleaned. The apology notes were delivered.

He did not have any more contact with the “negative influence” at school. Vikki and I talked with his teacher almost every day.

The boy got it together. He did everything we asked him to do. His attitude was, and is, spectacular.

He asked for another chance to be a Wake Forest ball boy. He asked for another opportunity to play basketball at West Central.

Fair enough. He earned it.

The Deacons welcomed him back with open arms. He was drafted to play on the Cavaliers at WCCC. (And for the curious, he is three weeks into Weed Whackers field hockey camp at Kentner Stadium.)

Miles sorely missed the post-season tournament at West Central last year. It was a bitter day, knowing his friends and teammates were battling on the hardwood and he could not participate.

This is another year. The Cavs finished in third place during the regular season. They would have to win three games in eight days to claim the tournament title.

First round: the 6^th seeded Yellow Jackets. It wasn’t particularly traumatic nor dramatic. A win. Survive and advance.

Second round: the 2^nd seeded Deacons. Semi-finals. The teams split during the regular season. Miles hit the game winner in overtime in the second match-up. Another close one, but Cavs win again.

Third round: the number 1 seed (and undefeated) Wolfpack. Championship Saturday. Due to winter weather, they had only played once during the regular season and the Cavs got trounced the first time around. The margin was somewhere around 30. I tried to forget as quickly as possible.

The Wolfpack is good. Much of the time, they’re great.

As normal, Miles was assigned to defend one of the best players in red. He had his hands full.

The game plan was easily apparent. The Pack had decided they were not going to let Miles play his regular game. He was pressed, pushed, double-teamed, blocked, trapped and harassed from baseline to baseline.

The boy could not score. Driving to the basket was not an option. He would have to find another way to help the team.

Rebound. Make the pass. Get on the floor. Talk. Encourage your teammates. Play defense.

Boy, did he. He battled every second. He sustained an elbow injury and a knee injury. During the 4^th quarter, while he was trying to not limp and could not straighten his left elbow, I asked him if he needed to come out. He waved me off with a Rocky Balboa-esque glare, determined to finish the fight. He finished the game in tears.

With some help from his friends, Miles held “the other guy” to two points. One basket.

20-19. Cavs won. It wasn’t Miles and the Pips. The team won.

Charlie converted an incredible jump shot. Nate dived out of bounds while trying to save the ball. Ethan made buckets in transition. Josh was a hawk on the ball. Evan was never out of position. Max chased down loose balls. Jordan provided help defense. Mason made his second free throw of the season. And Colin – dominated down low and nailed the winning free throw.

A glorious Saturday. The big trophy. Medals.

He congratulated the Wolfpack players and sprinted across the court. I caught him in mid-air and we hugged a hug that only fathers and sons can hug. One of the best moments of my life.

I kept thinking about that long trip to Vienna and the consequences that cost my son so much.

He could have given up. He accepted the responsibility. He washed the tables in the art room. He found a way.

Miles found redemption. Any man can.