The Last Time Your Daddy Took off His Shirt in Public

When I was a kid I was obsessed with basketball. I would stay up till 12:30 or 1:00 most nights, watching the Western Conference game on TNT or ESPN. And then every summer morning, as soon as I woke up, I'd throw on some shorts, a Kobe Bryant jersey, and too many wrist bands, and go outside to ruin the leather cover of my regulation NBA basketball on liquid-hot pavement. I put 100 percent of my time and energy into this one great thing. Some people spend their whole lives searching for their calling, but I was lucky enough to find mine before I even finished middle school.

I was going to be a professional basketball player when I grew up.

Problem was, my dream was wholly dependent on the "growing up" part. I'm 29 years old now, and I haven't grown an inch since 6th grade. Not to mention I'm slow and I have asthma.

But despite my obvious physical deficits, I was so sure I'd accomplish my dream of playing pro ball that I would dedicate myself fully to one brand of athletic apparel, rehearsing for the day when I would sign my first endorsement deal. Nike swoosh on my shirt, shorts, socks, shoes, underwear, wristbands, etc. Then Kobe signed a deal with Adidas, and suddenly there were three stripes on everything I owned, including my deodorant and cologne. Somehow your grandmother would scrape together $160 to buy me magical spring-loaded iridescent carbon fiber shoes, so I could actually graze the rim with my fingertips--the proudest accomplishment of a 5' 6" white boy's life. I had everything I needed to start my basketball career. . . except a spot on the roster.

But by the end of my freshman year, I was ready to take my game to the next level. My high school was having spring tryouts for the varsity basketball team, and I was making plans to break ankles and dunk on mofos. For months I'd been wearing ankle weights and doing calf-raises while blasting R Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly." I knew that at my height and overall physical appearance, there was only one way to get the attention of the coaches--besides wheezing the loudest--and that was to sky over my competition.

The tryout started with about 5 minutes of ball-handling and passing drills, then a layup line, then free throws. After that, the coaches lined everyone up on one sideline, and told us each to go to one half of the court or the other. I was psyched to finally play some 5 on 5, when I noticed something peculiar. All the players on the other side of the court were tall and muscular. All the players on my side of the court were short and soft. Then a curtain started to lower between the two halves. On that side, the varsity men's coaching staff watched over future NBA prospects. On this side, a P.E. teacher and an equipment manager pretended to pay attention to a bunch of future liberal arts majors. I could see a moment of recognition in all the other chubby kids' eyes. For us, the tryout was over before it began. 

. . . all but the humiliation.

As the curtain dropped, each of us were fully aware that we were eliminated based mostly on physical appearance. A couple layups and free throws are not a good enough sample size to determine basketball acumen and athletic potential. We looked unathletic, so we probably were. And now half of us losers were instructed to take off our shirts. It felt as if they were telling me, You're too fat to play basketball. Now get naked anyway. I played only 4 shameful, shirtless possessions. Didn't even take a shot.

That was the end of my basketball career, and the last time your daddy took off his shirt in public.

It's been 15 years. 15 years of fully-clothed beach trips and declined pool party invitations. 4 people have seen me shirtless in my adult life, and each of those people was either licensed to practice medicine, or they were sleeping in my bed.

This guy is my hero.

The basketball tryout humiliation story isn't the origin of my physical insecurity. I don't know what caused it, and I certainly can't remember far enough to say when it started. Truth is, I don't remember ever being comfortable with myself.

My struggle with negative body image has been the biggest and most persistent mental hurdle in my life. There have been times as an adult when I wanted to play basketball in a rec-league, but was too insecure to wear the uniform--a thin t-shirt that accentuates the moobs. Times when I wanted to audition to play guitar in a band, but was intimidated by the waif-like, heroine addict appearance of the other members. Then there was that time I spent nearly $2000 renting a beach house with a private pool just so your mother and I could swim together. There's no aspect of my life that hasn't been effected in some way by crippling physical insecurity.

But when you read this, I hope it comes as a surprise. I hope you have no idea that your father was ever so uncomfortable with taking off his shirt. Because regardless of what I look like, or how overwhelming the anxiety gets, I'll be taking you to the beach and to the pool, and teaching you to swim. And I'll be doing it shirtless, with as much confidence as I can fabricate. Because I can tell you that your body's perfectly beautiful and unique and nothing to be ashamed of, but you'll never believe me, if you see how ashamed I am of mine.

I'm going to overcome my struggle with negative body image. I don't know when, but soon. And when I do, it will be because you gave me the courage to do so.