I was in the 5^th grade, living deep in the Age of Mad Men, Evel Knievel and Benign Neglect. Based on pictures from that era, there’s irrefutable evidence that I was sporting a big Jewfro, wearing plaid bell bottoms, and hiding a set of mismatched front teeth behind swollen lips. You see, one of them had just been broken in half and crowned with a temporary, the result of a roller-skating mishap involving my retriever Brandy, a long leash, a tennis ball, a plywood ramp, and two stainless-steel garbage cans… It did not end well for me.

When learning of the “accident,” my father growled at me: “You quit that attention-seeking behavior!” Now, if I had the self-awareness… and courage, I might have told him that maybe it was connection-seeking behavior… Whatever. I needed another pursuit to win the recognition I was craving. Well, it just so happens the Cub Scouts were hosting the annual Pinewood Derby. Even though I still had scabs on my nose, forehead, and cheekbone, this was my time!

The good news was, my father– in addition to being an alcoholic, hyper competitive, cocaine-sniffing commodity broker, — happened to be a mighty fine woodworker. When I asked for his help on the project, he leapt at the opportunity. Now, this was unusual because he generally avoided the traditional father/son activities… like a game of catch. He once told me he “prefers to work with wood.” He said it’s “easier than people.”  Well, he snatched that block of pinewood right out of my hands and drew sleek lines on its side. With a band saw, my father made clean, deliberate cuts, and I saw waves of potential rising from the woodgrain.

“We’ll make it without edges, smooth, aerodynamic.” And he handed me the freshly cut wood, smelling sweetly of sawdust, along with a pile of sandpaper… So, I sanded and sanded, and when I showed him my work, he morphed into Mr. Miyagi from the Karate Kid (which hadn’t even been written yet), and he had me sand some more… “Always with the grain!” (Was there some kind of message hidden deep inside the wood? I kept looking.)

Finally, he nodded his head. Which for my father was an extraordinary expression of approval. With a drill press, he hollowed out a space at the bottom of the car. He melted down lead sinkers from his tackle box and poured the mercury-like soup into the cavity of the car to give it ballast. He shortened the wooden axles to make it look cool. At the Hobby Lobby, my father selected sparkly red paint and racecar decals he affixed to the side of the car. For a full day, I watched, in awe, as my father transformed a worthless hunk of wood into one of the finest hotrods I’d ever seen, which is saying a lot given my epic collection of Hotwheels.

When the big day arrived, I was all amped up. I got to wear my cub scout uniform, accessorized with an old dog bone disc. Brandy had cleaned out the marrow, and now it held my yellow scarf in place. My father was certain we’d win the whole thing… But there was a slight problem. In his exuberance, he failed to read the directions. He thought the car would be going down a shoot, rather than being held on the track by a strip of wood that the wheels would straddle. With the shortened axles, my father’s beautiful car would not, could not, did not stay on the track… We were eliminated in the first round.

I had to watch heat after heat, fathers slapping the backs of their boys who held their racecars high above their heads. Finally, a winner emerged, and we could slink out of the gym.

And it was then that I heard my name echoing over the loudspeaker. The troop leader was holding a huge trophy for the best-looking car in the Pinewood Derby. My father tenderly squeezed my forearm with his calloused hand: “Get up there and claim your prize,” As I slowly climbed the six steps of the gym stage, I heard Larry Hughes say, “Everyone knows your dad did all the work.”

Wait. How did he know that?  What about all that sanding? Didn’t that count for something (besides practice for grating potatoes when making latkes)?

My father heard Larry, too. He whispered, “We know better.” We certainly did.

When I got home, I put the trophy in my closet…

Frickin’ Goldilocks: Why is the Papa Bear is always doing too much … or not enough? I know that impact and outcomes are all the rage these days, but my father did try. God knows he tried. That’s got to count for something, right?