Hank

I believe it is my son Hank's goal to obliterate his old man. He will not rest until he has left me with nothing, nothing I can point to and say, "This is my domain. I excel at this beyond all those who call themselves Teverbaugh." And, yes, in the privacy of my own home, I do talk like that occasionally.

First there was the guitar. We started taking lessons together when he was about 10. In the beginning, I progressed much faster than he did, as his little fingers struggled to make even the simplest chords. Not being as proficient as his 46-year-old father drove him absolutely nuts. I, on the other hand, was fine with that. But his little hands grew and his maleable brain absorbed the rhythms of classic rock, and soon his guitar playing advanced from noise with a recognizable tune floating around in there somewhere, to nearly note-perfect recreations of the riffs and solos I grew up listening to. Meanwhile, I was still trying to pluck out the chorus to "Peaceful Easy Feeling." I've almost got it.

Next came math. Math was always my thing. Hell, I took calculus as an elective in college because I knew it'd be an easy A. Hank inherited my math gene and quickly became one of the best mathematicians in his class. Still, I was able to double-check his work and tutor him when needed throughout 4th, 5th, 6th and most of 7th grade. But then he started getting into the areas I had forgotten. He is in the 8th grade now, and I have cried uncle. To me, the equations in his textbook look like the scribblings on Einstein's chalkboard. I am eating his math dust, and it tastes like pi.

Now, my dominance in sports hangs in the balance. He has grown as tall as I am, so I don't know how much longer I can beat him in basketball. Plus, I have enrolled him to workout with Gil Thomas, my Dunk Dreams trainer. I know. I'm an idiot. He is already jumping nearly as high as I was before injuring my knee. He has risen to the challenge of Gil's workouts extremely well. I have learned that my son is capable of pushing himself and working through the pain of fatiguing muscles. Sure, there are times when I have to nag him to get off the couch and go to Gil's class, but there have been as many times when he's come to me eager and willing to put his body to the test. He truly has impressed the hell out of me. If he doesn't dunk before I do, it will only be because I took a baseball bat to his legs. I won't do that, of course--his mother would get too angry. So I am fated to stand by and watch my son best me once again.

Finally, I write comedy for a living. And my son ... well, the little bastard has a wonderful sense of humor. I think we all see where this going. God help me.