What is it about some teenage kids and that look of disdain, distaste and embarrassment towards their parents? All those sentiments come together at well-timed moments to form the juvenile mouth into a sneer. I don’t know – or didn’t until it was pointed out to me in no uncertain terms – when I was a teenager.
I could feel a sneer coming on and it usually coincided with the arrival of my dad around my friends. It was not that he would say anything especially dumb or dorky, or that they didn’t like him, they did – in fact they appreciated him. That was the point of difference.
At the place of my greatest preoccupations as a growing boy and early teenager — sporting fields –he was always there. He was there in primary school when I played my first games of football and cricket for Chadstone Park Primary School when I was in grade five. No other parent was there – it was midweek. Dad was able to be there because he worked night shift from 3.00 till 11.00 pm.
He took me to my first club footy and cricket training sessions. He was at every game. On game days he was the driver of half the cricket team and a quarter of the football team for about six successive years. My dad loved me being involved in sport and wanted to watch and encourage.
Until I was about fourteen, I thought that was pretty good too. It was our time. This was a common interest away from my sisters. Don’t know what dad talked to them about. What do you talk to girls about – especially older sisters who don’t play sport?
It was about then I developed ‘The Sneer’ (TS). It was born out of me being the beneficiary of a loving parent – and I ‘hated’ it. Yep, I hated (as dictated by my Adolescent Frame Of Reference – AFOR) being loved and for my dad to be reliable, dependable and a constant in picking me up after training whenever he could. I would always walk to it, as he would be at work, even though by then he was back to something like 9-5 with his job as a press secretary to state government ministers.
In my case, ‘The Sneer’ and the ‘Chip on the Shoulder’(COTS) seem to be intrinsically linked. Without having a chip on my shoulder I would not have perfected The Sneer. The COTS came about, I believe, because I happened to be quite a gifted sportsman, from an early age. As such, in my mind, the adulation I received meant I deserved things going my way and for me to get my own way. That smacks of being spoiled and my elder sisters will vouch that is exactly what ‘the golden child’ was. Therefore, if I wanted something it was my right for it to happen and if it didn’t then I would be unhappy. I expressed that by becoming surly again as dictated by my AFOR.
Outside of sport I had nothing much going for me. This didn’t bother me because outside of sport nothing was going, nothing was in fact, anything. Sport was it. I slept it, I breathed it, I batted it on the stocking with the cricket ball attached to the side of the house and I kicked it with a football and soccer ball a million times in the back yard or any space that was – well, not inside. Even inside there was the Nerf ball!
Being so engrossed, I would need to be good – right? Well I was, but that does not mean everything will always go my way – though I couldn’t see why not. But during those times when it did not go so well – being dismissed for a low score in cricket, playing a below par game in footy, I would not express myself in humble or accepting ways. No, I would rage about the injustice of me not doing as well as I should have. How that presented was not attractive. If a dismissal in cricket, it was often a bad decision by an umpire. A bad game at footy was probably because my team mates let me down somehow.
In quiet times of self-reflection, which nobody saw, I lacked confidence and never really thought I was as good as people would say. I would view failures as my own fault. My inner critic was harsh, Sadly, he became even harsher as I aged.
But no public persona of mine would let that particular cat out of the bag. I had to be the best, or up with the best. That meant I had to hang around the best, so I don’t think I was a great tolerator of sport for ‘having a go’s’ sake. I was impatient with those of less competence. I seldom put them down directly but let my exasperation be known by muttering and stomping about. Many of my admirers were those who could not play sport as well and they saw me as a role model – choosing me as captain more often than not. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you!
These are factors that delivered a serious COTS which then brought TS into play. I knew The Sneer was in action as soon as dad turned up after training. I justified it in terms of him being one of few parents who attended regularly and therefore this was not cool. Cool was when you were independent and didn’t have a doting dad. When I think of the numbers of boys in my sporting teams who would have idolised my dad and been jealous of me having my dad there when theirs’ were not – I cringe to this day.
Dad would have seen The Sneer and then would have got used to the stony silence (SS) that would be a part of the surliness I felt around my parents – mostly dad because he was, well, there! My obvious lack of enthusiasm when he turned up was then followed, on the drive home, by monosyllabic answers to his questions, and no spontaneous conversation coming from me.
He must have wondered why the son who used to love talking about sport and sharing it all with him, no longer did. Maybe he tolerated it because when I was not around my sporting mates, I did engage him and was a lot more likeable.
But one night his tolerance ran out – big time. I didn’t even get it – until I got home. It was a midweek winter’s evening, cold, dark and wet. I am guessing I was in the under 15’s footy team at ‘Chaddy’. I was untying my boot laces when dad arrived. He received The customary Sneer. Fortunately he didn’t hang around inside the changerooms talking to the coach or other players. I got my gear, put it in my training bag, and headed out of the rooms to the car park.
I kept my head down preparing myself to be more sneery and surly (as was my want) so did not see the car immediately as I normally would. Maybe he parked a bit further away. I looked up but could not see the distinctive green and white EH Holden. Strange. As if not comprehending, I returned to the rooms to see if he had gone back. He was not there. I even checked the dunnies. I then went out to the bowling club side to see if he had unusually parked there – no EH Holden.
Dad was not there. He had been there. He had arrived and said hello to me, well tried to and he received TS. Nothing unusual in that. A mystery. My dad had vanished into the dark night. There was nothing for it but for me to walk home – some 20 minutes with light rain at my back, a cold wind and a stomach crying out for a big dinner after the daily exertions of a pubescent boy.
I recall being angry as I walked. He came and then he left. What the hell? His sole purpose in coming was to pick me up like the other dads, well a few dads anyway, the odd mum even. That’s what parents did. Why would you come and then go. Hello – you left me behind.
Then, the closer I came to home, I started to feel a bit uneasy. Maybe dad was angry with me for some reason. What could it possibly be? I tried to think what I might have done – had he discovered something I lied about (such as the amount of change I would return when I would go to the shop). No, doubt it.
Whatever was going on I was not feeling especially comfortable as I approached the front door. Sure enough the trusty EH Holden was under the carport. Had I imagined dad had turned up at training?
I knocked (I did not have the house key as dad was picking me up). Mum answered. Then I kind of let fly at mum, drawing on the COTS fall-back position of blaming others. ‘Where’s dad?’ I asked. And then more indignantly, ‘I had to walk home from training!’
Mum just walked back towards the kitchen. When I went in there I looked around the corner and saw dad sitting in a chair in the living room. A distinct feeling of discomfort rose in the pit of my stomach. I was about to do some more cussing and blaming, but his lack of interest in my entering the room halted me.
There was a vibe. I put my bag down on the carpet. When I hesitantly looked at my father he did not look happy. All right for him I thought, he hasn’t just walked home in the cold, dark and rain. He is nice and warm and cosy. What’s he got to be unhappy about?
He looked at me. There was a long pause. Then, very calmly but with a hint of anger and hurt, said, ‘If you sneer at me like that again you will be walking home from training every night?’
I was about to affect outrage. ‘What?’ Yet any outrage would be half baked and he knew it. What I felt was the burning truth. The guilt that I had hurt him. I got what I deserved.
Nothing more was said. Not a lot was said in general between me and dad that night.
It was, however, a key marker and turning point. TS lost not only its potency but from that moment on there was a sharp decline in the number of public appearances it chose to make.
