Yesterday, on the last day of school, I pushed a merry-go-round crowded with fourth graders. The kids challenged me to push them faster. So I did.
One boy lost his grip and sailed. It wouldn't have been the first time some kid crashed into playground sawdust. But the agile boy tucked and rolled and I, middle-aged and fat, was quick enough to catch him and break his fall.
"Okay," my wife said. "That's enough."
She wasn't talking to the hyper kids; she was talking to me, her testosterone-swamped husband. The kids and I were all disappointed when I said good-bye and slinked back to our car.
"Wow," my wife said. "You're such a boy."
She knows what she's talking about. She's married to a boy and is the mother of two more—and all of us love to smash stuff. That's one of the reasons why I love basketball so much. One gets to officially smash stuff. And I'm terrified my boys will no longer get to watch the Seattle Sonics professionally smash stuff.
A friend of mine told me he hasn't allowed his son to get emotionally attached to Kevin Durant because he doesn't want his son to have a broken heart.
Yes, there are precious things that good men refuse to smash.