Cut from the same cloth

 They say that parents are the bones upon which children sharpen their teeth. I first heard that when I was 5. Of course, my overwhelming imagination, combined with my timid nature, had me imaging myself in a feral state, gnawing on my parents, struggling to sate my appetite upon their "bones". This led to quite a few nightmares during my pre-school years. Some days, I'm surprised I managed to survive this long without major therapy........I might have told y'all a bit too much about me just now.
 Oddly enough, this little flight-of-fancy began not from the idea of disturbing cannibalism nor even from Halloween, but rather from a personal message I found on FaceBook (Thank you, Mr. Zuckerberg). A friend of mine, who recently spent some time with my family, told me how he had so much fun with my parents (lucky bastard). But, it was a passing comment that got me. "Your dad's got GAME!!!!". I didn't want to even imagine what he was talking about or how he even found out.
 For the benefit of the uninformed, Game, in hip hop terminology, is a measure of confidence and "smoothness" with a member of the opposite sex. We all got it, to varying degrees naturally, but its still there nonetheless. And daddy-o is no exception.
 I remember time and again how people have told me how charming my father is and how he's so funny and smart and wise and gifted and helpful and so on. And while I take pride in knowing this, I could never help but cringe. I can never fully explain why I feel like that.
 According to legend ( which is what the siblings and I call our family history because......we were bored one day and we thought it sounded cool), pops has always had game, which has been passed down for generations. Depending on who you ask, I come from either a lineage of charm and eloquence, or from a long line of "playas". The fact that I'm writing this without making some weird joke should be an indication of how ridiculous I find this to be. And there is of course my other two siblings who, despite their physical appeal (they are good looking men), seem to fall short. But, in their defense, one's still getting his feet wet and the other one is.........thrashing around the water like a drunk-gone-overboard, scaring away all of the fish
 One of the first things pops always got on me about was my dress code. I've always admitted that I am a slave to my moods. At times, I can either be formal or relaxed, preppy or gangsta. But, I've always maintained a strict adherence to presentation, which is something I'm sure dad was proud of, even though he'd rather punt me in the head than admit as much.
 For years, he had nagged me on the need for a suit. And for years, I resisted. Until the faithful day, i.e. my graduation from college, where I needed to have one. So, we both got suits and I won't lie, the time we spent buying them was fun. This led to several more trips to his tailor, as he allowed me to tag along ever since. In that time, I slowly developed an understanding, an appreciation and even a taste for formal wear. I now appreciate the need for a suit, the feel of it, the confidence it can instill when properly worn, because otherwise....it just looks stupid.
 I think, it was that realization that led me to something that I should have known a long time ago and realized long before that. I don't give him enough credit. Sure, he's my father and therefore, was responsible for me during my formative years. But, it never occurred to me that he could just as easily have ditched that responsibility and gone about his way. But, he never did.
 It's like what Chris Rock had said once said about how mamas get songs about how they loved and were devoted to their children, but all fathers got was "Poppa was a rolling stone" ( love the temptations.....and that was a classic). I agree. Sure, there are plenty of dead-beat father's out there, but also as many good, decent fathers as well. I was lucky enough to have had one.
 Pops was never perfect, but he was good. I realize now that I learned quite a bit from him, sometimes more than I care to admit. I learned that, at least, half of my good traits came from him. Half of what makes me me, for better or for worse, was a result of him. And even though he could have left at any time, and trust me, we've given him plenty of motivation to do so, he never did.
 So yes, I can admit that my pops definitely got game. My father is a wise, charming, humorous, worldly, wonderful man. I am proud to call him all these things and many more. And while I can honestly admit that the apple may not have fallen so close to the tree, it hasn't fallen so far either.
 While Christianity will preach that I should take no pride in this, I will say that I am proud of who I was, who I will become & who I am.
 After all, who am I, if not my father's son??