One night of umpiring, vinyl, and baseball videos reminded me that even as Gio grows more independent, music and small moments still stitch us together.
Some days as a dad are harder than others. More often than not, the doubt creeps in: Am I a good dad? Am I screwing up my kids? How do I parent when my old playbook feels stale now that my child is growing up and behaves differently?
Yesterday felt different. Like a clear “good dad” day.
When Gio arrived home from school, I asked him to come into my listening den so we could talk. I apologized for the day before. I had lost my temper, let my emotions get the better of me, and called him names I should never have said. I told him I think I lost my temper because I care so much for him, and I’m not sure how else to express myself sometimes when I feel angry. Then I told him I need to do better as a dad. I reminded him he is a great kid, that we love him very much, and that we are proud of the young man he is becoming.
I also shared something new with him. The night before, I had written about the idea of him being the Rising Sun. He had never heard it until then. I explained that I would be calling him the Rising Sun because he is a bright light in the world, and because he is growing older and more independent every day (see earlier post).
The rest of the day unfolded like a gift. Gio umpired home plate in a Majors game and did a really good job. He was vocal, steady, and had a solid strike zone. A week earlier, he had admitted he wanted to ump with me because he didn’t want parents yelling at him. So I asked, “Do you want me to stay?” His clear “yes” was progress—it meant he knew what he wanted, and he asked for it. So I stayed, just behind the bleachers, close enough for him to feel supported but far enough to let him own the game.
Afterward, we stopped at the library and discovered they have a Teen Center on Friday nights—pizza, video games, a space just for kids his age. Gio was curious, maybe even a little excited. This was a nice change from his normal response to “How was [insert activity]?” — usually just a flat, “boring.”
On the way there, we listened to Can’t Stop by the Red Hot Chili Peppers—one of his favorites right now. From there, we swung by Wal-Mart for a black binder he needed for music, and we lingered in the vinyl section.
That’s when Gio spotted Master of Puppets. Later at home, we dropped the needle on Orion and listened together. That song has a history with us—on the way home from winter baseball, we used to crank it up loud on dark car rides. I once told him, “This is one of those songs that sounds better at night.” Ever since, Gio will sometimes turn to me when a track comes on and say, “This is a song that sounds better at night, right?”
Listening to Orion together again felt both epic and intimate, like reclaiming a piece of our story. We finished the night watching a Jomboy video about Yamamoto’s near no-hitter—laughing and being blown away by the movement of his pitches. No wonder he almost threw a no-hitter the other night!
For a time where I haven’t really felt that connected to him, it was a night where all felt right in the world. I knew we were close still, even as he changes and grows more independent.
It was one of those nights that stitched us back together. The kind where the noise fades, and I feel like I have my son back.
The quiet hours come in many forms — an empty gym on a rainy day, a path through the woods, or the glow of vinyl spinning late at night. Each reminds me that solitude is its own kind of luxury.
What does it mean to truly understand something? From Feynman’s sixth grader test to AC/DC’s simplicity, from indigenous wisdom to the lessons of drumming, this reflection explores how mastery moves beyond names into songs that touch mind, body, emotion, and spirit.
What Jane’s Addiction—and Perry Farrell’s lyrics—taught me about empathy, language, and seeing people for who they really are. A tribute to music that still hits harder than ever.
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