My Boys
How my boys have grown. I only realised this when I look back at the family Raya photos.

I'd like to share an article which is quite nice for fathers who have growing up boys to play with..

MY SON, MY ENEMY
By Leonard Pitts, Jr. Reader’s Digest, May 1997.

A while ago, just after a close encounter of the disciplinary kind, my then-l2-year-old son, Marlon, asked me if I was up for a game of one-on-one at the basketball hoop in the driveway. I had been expecting a day of wrathful silence, but here was my son with an open grin and a friendly challenge. I was both surprised and pleased.

Which only goes to prove how naive a dad can be. As soon as the kid stepped onto the driveway, a physical change came over him. His body grew taut; his eyes became lasers. In no time at all an outside jumper dropped soundlessly through the net. A layup floated over my outstretched hand and into the basket. He executed a twisting, crazy drive, climbing halfway up my chest to drop in a shot that I am sure violated the laws of physics.

Next thing l knew, I was sweating, breathless and down three baskets to zero, which is a fairly sizable hole when you're only playing to ten. Gripping my knees, struggling for air, I realized what l should've known all along: this was no friendly game.

This was a challenge.

There comes a time when sons test their fathers. A boy on the threshold of manhood wants to prove to himself how close he is, and the most convenient yardstick is dad. The test may be physical, or it may be intellectual but sooner or later the young lion has to take the old one's measure -- to see if he's still got it.

I understood that perfectly, as Marlon heaved the ball to me with a vaguely contemptuous air.

My son is all the things I'm not: quick and graceful, with a deadly shot and a killer crossover dribble. And I know that there will come a day when he will, on a regular basis, whip me like a recalcitrant mule.

Just not today, I told myself.

It was easier for me with Marlon's older brother, Markise. We played board games, not basketball. But around the time he turned 13, the games became a tug of war. Whether we were playing Monopoly or Risk, Markise would loudly question every move I made. He'd drag out the rule book, combing its contents in an effort to document my cheating. Not surprisingly, he is now studying to be a lawyer.

“Markise,” I would say, “it's just a game.” I didn't yet understand that it was anything but.

Frankly, part of me resents this testing between old blood and new. I've always considered myself the coolest of dads.

One's coolness isn't the issue, however. If you're a dad, and especially if this is the first time you've been tested, your reaction is -- huh? And who can blame you? For 11 years the kid has regarded you as a wise prophet and lawgiver. Then one day you find that you're the enemy.

I have one more son to go, 11-year old Bryan, and l suspect that the last may be the worst. He is, after all, the same child who at age two sized me up, gave me a gummy smile and announced, “One day I'm going to kill you so I can marry Mommy.” For a year after that, I called him Oedipus. My wife had to make me stop.

I suppose we could be gracious and accept our limitations. Cede the pride to the younger lion. Be mature.

Heck, maybe we should even be flattered. The boy wants to gauge his manhood, and the best standard he can think of to measure himself against is dad. Kind of makes you feel warm all over.

Yeah, right. I don't believe it either.

It's a man thing, I guess. John Wayne might have said it: “Ya fight back till ya can't fight back no more. Ya don't give in till they shovel the dirt in your face, pilgrim.”

Perhaps that's the lesson a father teaches an impatient son by refusing to give in on the driveway or at the game board or wherever. Toughness. Fortitude. Pride.

Marlon and 1 played a game for the ages that day in the driveway. A game they should write epic poetry about. Larry Bird versus Magic Johnson in game seven of the National Basketball Association Finals could not have been more intense. I backed him in, put up pump fakes and finger rolls, scrambled for loose balls, fought for rebounds. Marlon drove the lane, popped in outside shots, swatted the ball out of my hands.

When it was over, I had clawed my way to victory by the narrowest of margins: 10-9.

Afterward, wheezing like an asthmatic smoker, sweat rushing off my brow, I called him over so that l could impart a life lesson. I told him I knew why he had contested me with such feverish intensity.

“You played for the wrong reasons.” I counseled. He nodded as if he understood.

A few weeks later Marlon challenged me to a friendly round of video-game boxing. Beat me soundly. And laughed while he did it.

And all the while my youngest, Bryan, watched me with a serene and knowing smile.