Sobbing S.O.B.

I cried today. Not a full-blown broken dam of tears accompanied by a wailing and sobbing-type episode, but the blurry eyes, runny nose, lump-in-the-throat kind.

A Facebook link led me to a YouTube video of a cancer-battling toddler who was given an opportunity to take the field with his favorite college football team. The boy, in a personalized jersey, and way too big pads, ran a touchdown play into the end zone as the defenders stumbled along the way. After scoring, the team put him on their shoulders and carried him off the field to the roar of the hometown stadium. The parents clutched each other and cheered - likely knowing this will be the only time they’ll do so. Total onion chopping stuff.

As I age I find myself tearing up more frequently.  I’m a grown man – an outdoorsman, a former athlete, and a hardass of the highest sort. I was an amateur boxer, a truck driver, a Harley rider, but those manly endeavors have done little to mask my sensitive side. I wept when my children were born. For years I choked up when saying goodbye to my high school senior baseball players at our season's-end banquet. A few weeks ago I nearly bawled while watching an elderly veteran, in failing health, stand resolutely and salute the flag during a school ceremony.

I’ve always been a crier. In fact, I specifically remember the moment I recognized my emotional frailty. At six, I was unprepared for Toto’s leap from Dorothy’s arms, causing her to miss the balloon ride from Oz back to Kansas. I can only imagine how the Predni family must’ve rolled their eyes and jabbed each other in the ribs once I left their family movie night.

Crying isn’t a shame. Everyone does it. So I happen to do it more than most men. And little girls.

One summer, when I was 11, I saved my paper route tips so I could buy a large Mepps bucktail spinner. (Subscriptions were $1.80 per two weeks. Customers paid with two dollars and told me to keep the 20 cents in change.) A month later, with $7.00 in my pocket and fishing pole tied to my bike, I pedaled to the bait shop, bought the lure and rode directly to the river. With my SECOND cast I snagged a log, broke the line, and lost my prized possession. After a chorus howls and knee-slapping from my friends I tied on another lure and walked down river. Not to find a better fishing hole, but so my buddies wouldn’t see the streams flowing from my eyes.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a wimp. Physical pain seldom bothers me. In fifth grade I pried my thumbnail off with a pencil during Mr. Nowak’s math class. Pried. It. Off. I worked for days at peeling back the cuticle until it exposed the growth plate. Eventually it dried-up enough to form a hollow spot large enough to insert a pencil tip. A few jiggles later and my homework was soaked in a pool of coagulating bio-hazard. No crying.

In eighth grade I broke my hand playing baseball. Four days later I had it examined. The bones had begun to heal crooked. Two doctors pinned me into a chair (without an anesthetic) and wrenched on my hand until the bones re-broke and could be set properly. I nearly passed out when they finished. With my hand in a cast, they sent me home on my bike. Not so much as a moist eyelash.

In a seventh grade football game I dislocated my Adam’s apple. Needing to breathe quickly and heavily from the physical exertion of the play there was a moment when I felt the sensations of suffocation and panic. As I lay flailing around on the ground, with a searing pain in my throat, the coach calmly pushed on the misplaced protuberance until it snapped back to its original position. Not even a sniffle.

These days I can’t recite the Pledge of Allegiance without a quiver in my voice. Seeing someone else cry makes me emotionally wobbly. A couple of years ago I watched one of our high school wrestlers, a boy with a double-digit winless record, pin his opponent in front of the packed parents night audience. As the referee raised the kid’s hand in victory, he smiled at his mom who was overcome with emotion. I made a quick exit to the restroom.

A psychologist would probably tell me that I cry because there’s something missing in my life. I’m certain my buddies would agree with such a diagnosis and they would surmise that what’s missing is my man card. And a set of testicles.

I’d like to believe I’ve always been aware that my days of being upright and mobile on this planet are numbered, and that’s why I am an emotional wreck. I make time to notice moments which are mostly ignored. Winning trophies and getting my name in the paper have never been my thing. I root for people who overcome their struggles, and for those who fail in their attempt. Days ago I saw a Facebook notice of the death of a former teacher of mine. He was a fixture in the halls of my high school for decades. I thought of him occasionally over the years and was surprised to see he’d lived for so long. Endless, touching words written about him in the comments section left me dizzy for the afternoon.

As much as I’d like to have stoic control over my emotions, I expect I’ll always need to concoct some semi-believable story to avoid embarrassing situations. Coming up with spur of the moment excuses for my watery eyes: a pepper allergy, a zipper mishap, or the Packers losing to the Vikings might cover it for now.

If you happen to be near me during the playing of Where the Red Fern Grows, or Taps, or Field of Dreams - please have a hanky ready. And buy stock in Kleenex.