Surf Camp

Chapter 4

Ankle Busters- Waves too small to ride.

"So you're telling me, that you want me to pay someone so you can go surfing?"

I twisted and untwisted my clammy hands in my lap as I tried to explain, "Well, no, not exactly."

My dad, chewing, stared at me across a plate of waffles. Each square on the waffle was filled with an equal volume of maple syrup, topped with an inordinate amount of whipped cream.

"It's more like a camp, you know, and there are like coaches and stuff."

"That sounds pretty lit if you ask me." Ross said whizzing by, a soccer ball at his feet. He fled to the backyard, and the pounding of the soccer ball hitting the fence echoed through the large house. I rolled my eyes.

"Right." he said, a waffle fleck flying from his mouth, "And this isn't something that you can learn on your own, without me paying seven-hundred dollars?"

"Well, I mean, it would give me a chance to try something new, maybe even pursue it. And it might make me happier."

"You've been depressed?"

"Well, no, not depressed, but I haven't really moved in the last few years-it would broaden my horizons." I sensed my argument getting thinner.

"And you need a class to start moving?" he chewed and spoke up simultaneously, "You can't just go on walks with Ava or whatever?"

I folded my arms across Kings jersey. "If Ross wants to sign up for soccer in Malaysia, it's no problem. We'll get vaccinated for six diseases and book a flight. But I want to sign up for surfing by the beach and you're like, 'No way.'"

"Listen, I didn't say no way," he paused, "I'll be happy to pay for anything you're into-but a sport." He speared a strawberry, swirled it in whipped cream, scooped up a waffle chunk then rammed it in his mouth.

"And c'mon. You can't compare tanning on the beach to Ross's soccer."

"Why can't I?" I insisted.

"Because soccer's a sport-not a particularly American sport, I'll grant you. It doesn't involve much scoring or violence," he smacked his lips. "But there's some scoring and there's fake violence. Most importantly, it has a ball."

My eyes widened. "Huh?"

"Soccer is played with a ball, Jacks," he explained, "All sports involve balls. They can be kicked or thrown, doesn't matter."

I stared at my dad for a second, dumbfounded.

"So," I breathed in, "Gymnastics isn't a sport?"

"Negatory, it's an exhibition."

"What about fencing? Or bull-riding? Or ice skating?"

"Nope, nope, and heck no. Ice-skating? C'mon, you're gonna make me ill over here." He held his bulging stomach.

I thought silently for a moment, "Hockey doesn't have a ball."

He sat up straight, "Pucks are like the metric equivalent of balls. So yeah, hockey is most definitely a sport."

"How 'bout bingo? That involves balls."

My dad sighed and spoke deliberately, as if explaining a fine point of the law, " While all sports involve balls, not all things involving balls are sports. Like with juggling and ping pong and so forth."

I pressed on, unsure why I was prolonging the argument. "What about fishing? That's on ESPN all the time."

"If one of the two sides doesn't know it's playing." he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, "then no, it's not a sport. And the fishes definitely don't know what's up. So no, it's not a sport." More chewing.