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Look, I'm not the kind of guy who has to win all the time. I hear about professional athletes, how they're all afflicted with competitive natures so intense that they turn every moment of their lives into a contest, a life or death contest about who has the best stuff, who got the best deal, whoever can say, "I'm the winner." I mean, I guess that's why we like to watch them on TV—they give it their all. But I've always thought—I'm glad I don't have to hang out with guys like that—guys who won't let a little kid win a game of tic-tac-toe.
Tic-tac-toe might be a bad example. It's such a trivial game—the first player has an absolute win-or-draw strategy—just mark the center box—and the second player has an absolute draw strategy, even if the first player makes his best move—just respond by marking one of the corners.
Everyone knows that, right?
Now that I think of it, tic-tac-toe is a great example.
The point is, when you're playing tic-tac-toe with a kid, and you want the kid to win—you've actually got to try to lose—you've got to deliberately make moves that you know are bad. Sure, it goes against your competitive instincts, but you do it. Apparently this is something that Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods or Magic Johnson just cannot bring themselves to do—and it's not just the superstars. I know some guys who know some minor leaguers—and they all say the same thing—what separates professional athletes, even the ones at the bottom of the heap—from all ordinary people—is this simple thing—an inability to throw a game to a kid.
And I gotta tell you, I've thrown plenty of games to my kid. Tic-tac-toe, Chinese checkers, Super Mario 64—I've thrown them all. I've let the whiffle ball float past my outstretched hand so I could call it a home run. And not because Jake is one of those whiny, narcissistic kids who throw a tantrum if they don't win every time. He's not. But I want him to taste victory sometimes. It gives me pleasure. Of course, if he starts celebrating too much, well then I turn it up a notch, let him feel what it feels like to lose.
But on the whole, I think I'm pretty well-balanced when it comes to competition.
Which is why it's so weird that I got into such a thing with that neighbor girl. Samantha. Sam's eleven, and Jake is eight—now I'd be kidding you if I didn't say right up front that this is a friendship that I keep a close eye on. One of these days, Sam is going to get into girly stuff, clothes and make-up and gossip and so on, and if everything goes well, she'll lose interest in playing with the scrappy little boy down the block. On the other hand, if she tries to pull Jake into that stuff, then I'll have to intervene.
But right now, she's a tom boy—bigger and stronger than Jake, and a lot more coordinated. If my boy can take what she dishes out, more power to him.
