Easy Ice
Dispatches From Inside the Fire: Part 8 of 11.
For Jackson, who turns 21 today. Happy birthday, son!
When he was a few days old, his entire being fit on my forearm. From the crook of my elbow to the tip of my forefinger. At 21, he towers over me. Bigger, stronger, more fit in ways his old man hasn’t been in a very long time. If ever.
I had just returned from a week in Oklahoma. Sheri had just returned from a week in Canada. She found out while she was there but waited until we were both back home in Minnesota to tell me. I don’t remember exactly what was said or the order of the conversation. I remember the feeling. I was 31 years old and had dreamed of this moment for more than a few of them.
His first name came from my mom’s grandfather, Jackson Leatherman. His middle name, Claude — well, that’s well documented. It wasn’t until he was doing a paper in middle school about family that we found out about Charlton Jackson Simmons, and after a night of research, we all became legitimate Packers fans with deep ties to Wisconsin because of Charlton, who was my great-great-great-great grandfather.
An elementary school principal said something once that landed hard and soft at the same time: The days go by slow but the years go by fast.
There were many days the last 21 years where I selfishly wanted my old life back. Sheri and I even had a name for it: LBJ. Life Before Jackson. After 21 years, there are many days I want to go back. Not to LBJ, but to holding him on my forearm or on my shoulders or coaching him from the sidelines. The years really do pile up quickly.
We used to stop for fast food on the way to and from basketball tournaments. Every time, he’d forget to ask for easy ice. They fill the cup with so much ice you get three sips of Sprite and a cup full of frozen nothing.
At some point I started calling him Easy Ice. Just enough of the hard and cold and competitive to let everyone know he’s there. Rest of it smooth.
I was all Kansas heat. No Minnesota (N)ice. No dimmer switch. Just go go go. I coached him like that for a while. Too hot, too invested, too wired. They were kids. Most of them are thankful for it, thank goodness. Some still call me coach. But I could have turned it down a notch or ten.
So I did. And our teams win more now. Funny how that works.
Here’s a play that shows what kind of player he was. Late in a game against a good team. One of his friends on the other side. Three-pointer goes up with a second or two left. Doesn’t go in. Jackson fights for the rebound in the paint, throws it back up while off-balance, and it goes in.
They argued he didn’t get the shot off in time. They lost.
But that’s the play. Not the three. The put-back. Off-balance, in traffic, clock at zero. That’s the kid. And I have no doubt that if he would have shot the three, he would have made it. Easy Ice. Always.
He played two years of college basketball. Got the scholarship. Program moved from NAIA to D2, overuse injuries piled up, and he decided it was time to move on. He didn’t get cut. He cut it after 15 years of cutting down nets.
I think he thought quitting would disappoint me. It didn’t. I wasn’t thrilled about it, but it had nothing to do with disappointment. What I saw was a player who recognized when something wasn’t serving him anymore and had the discipline to choose a harder path forward. His path, not someone else’s.
He’s got enough of his mom in him to stay grounded. Teflon tough. The things that would stick like gorilla glue to me slide right off him. He’s got some of our best qualities. A few bad ones too. And some entirely of his own, because he is one of a kind.
Sheri posted on Facebook “thanks for not growing up to be an asshole.” Truer words have never been spoken, and at a time when they really do need to be spoken.
I had a conversation with him when he was twelve. Not the normal let’s-talk-about-drugs speech. He comes from a long line of addicts. Family who drank themselves to death, smoked themselves to death, drugged themselves to death. Not unlike a lot of other families, but I told him it’s not a mistake he can afford to make. Other people might experiment and find the exit. Our wiring doesn’t come with that door. I’ve seen it close on too many.
Scared the heck out of him, probably. But here we are.
He’s aware. Painfully. And the word for what he does with that awareness is moderation. A quality I have never once been accused of having at his age. Also not a conversation I had with anyone in my family when I was twelve or twenty or forty. The conversations came later. So I chose to have it early with him.
He’s been accepted into DPT school. Near the top of his class. Honors program. Character and Leadership minor. Future Dr. Simmons.
I’m not sure we’ve ever had a Dr. Anything in the family other than Pepper. Plenty of Dr. Peppers, now with Zero Sugar!
He wouldn’t want you to call him Dr. Simmons. He wouldn’t want you to call him Easy Ice either. He’s Jackson. But I told him I will never miss an opportunity to call him Dr. Simmons. Not because it will be true but because I can.
I wanted to be his hero as long as possible. Way longer than my dad was for me.
Kind of worked out in some ways and not in others, I suppose.
He saw me go through things a kid shouldn’t see a parent go through. The emergency room. The wiring that seized up. The dad he called papa who wasn’t invincible. The executive who was fireable. The 50-year-old who didn’t want to feel sorry for himself but just wanted to do something about it.
But I think that’s what equips him. Not the hero. Not the villain. The example. Including the parts that went sideways. He’s got awareness I had at 21, but he’s got his mother’s and his own too. Doesn’t mean shit won’t go sideways for him. It will. Life’s backhand is always in the room. There should be no surprises.
A good friend once called parenting the toughest job you’ll ever love. Looking back, it wasn’t that tough. It was utter joy.
There is for me a sad satisfaction in having been part of his journey up to this point. I’m overly sentimental about it. I’m bawling right now as I type this. They are not tears of joy. They are not tears of accomplishment.
In basketball, even after hours of playing, sweating, competing, I have always been inclined to run it back one more time. One more game. Until that one is finished and then just one more.
I can’t run it back with him at this point. Can’t rewind the tape and do it all again. I can only look forward to what’s next. Maybe becoming a grandpa. Maybe working with kids as a coach, hopefully his and his brother’s. And I’m okay with whatever comes next. My playbook is full.
He might not grow taller. He hasn’t fit on my forearm for 21 years. But he will continue to grow in other ways the next 21 years. And I can be part of that journey as well. Not as his coach or his parent or his drill sargent or whatever. Just whatever he needs, whenever he needs it, for as long as he needs it.
That’s where the real joy continues to live.
If it doesn’t move you, it can’t change you.
Derek Simmons has been coaching his oldest son for almost twenty-one years and has the gray hair to prove it. Or what’s left of it. The first Dr. Simmons in the family will not be him. He writes Standard Correspondence because the alternative is losing to his kid at golf in silence.