"Son, Lower Your Expectations"

My wise father, sitting quietly in our old green lounge chair, watched me heave my barbells while he tried to make out an image amidst the snow storm on our 1954 black and white Mentor television.  In between vigorous sets, he would take his pipe out of his mouth and say, "Son, tinker with those 'rabbit ears' and push the 'booster' buttons"---high tech gadgets that would occasionally bring us Frosty Frolics, a skating program, or Spike Jones.  He worked at watching; I worked at weight lifting.  I looked down at my legs, designed along the lines of the broom my mother was using in the kitchen at the time.  The coach, nose in my face, had said that afternoon, "Thompson, you'll need a pair of legs if you want to play football next year.  You have a linebacker's heart and the legs of a small robin."  "Pop, I said in frustration in the middle of the 108th squat, I ain't got legs enough."  He took his pipe out, smiled, motioning for me to tinker the booster.  "There are some things in life some of us have to be content to watch others do.  Lower your expectations, son."  It took 12 days of practice and one game to learn my lesson. "I quit, coach, I said.  Heart ain't enough.  I ain't got the legs of a linebacker."  I turned in my gear and walked the 3 miles home.