I'll be proud — even if he isn't a Montana

When I found out the son of one of my boyhood sports heroes had committed to play college football for my favorite team, my enthusiasm was tough to veil. But I couldn't very well jump on my desk and sob for joy at my work desk, so the professional in me took over right quick. 

But suffice it to say I am thrilled that Nick Montana will take his late-blooming frame to the University of Washington campus in 2010. Even more so, I am acutely aware of how proud I am and will be of my son, now matter what he ends up being good at (please, please, puh-leese not opera, though.). 

I haven't always thought this would be the case. As I progressed through high school and college, I half-gleefully accepted the notion that I would be one of those ultra-pushy sports dads, force-feeding my son defensive slide drills and ladder sprinting drills — all in the name of a college scholarship. After all, my boy would be joining my life, not the other way around, so he would need to take on my hobbies and goals as his own? It worked for Todd Marinovich's dad, right?

Uh, bad example.

OK, buy I could pattern myself after the Williams' sisters' father, couldn't I? Let's see ... I'll take "self-serving childhood-ruiner" for $500, Alex.

Now that I'm a papa, I look at my 10-month-old son as he pulls himself up to the entertainment unit with the off-limits DVDs for the upteenth time, and I'm just so freakin' thankful that he's healthy and apparently happy (Who really knows, though, right? He could be harboring some seriously scary deep-seeded anger, and I'd have no clue.).

It would be absolute gravy if this little dude were to morph into an athletically gifted, hard-working point guard or 400-meter runner in about 15 years.

The meat and potatoes is simply getting to watch him learn and interact day after day.