My Dad and the "Ef Bomb"




When I was in my pre-teens my friends and I always often had a game of tackle football directly across the road from my house. The action was hard core, we had no pads or helmets but no-one cared. As a result of this intensity, the air was often rife with very loud, extremely crude cussing.

One Sunday afternoon I was mowed down by a block from behind and as per custom, I jumped up and unleashed a venomous string of obcenities at the cretin who dared to perform this henious act.

About mid bellow I noticed my Dad, leaning on his rake, watching and listening from our front yard. 

We kept playing for a time afterward and at game's end my Dad motionrd me over. As I recall, our conversation went something like this.

Dad: "You guys play really well. I wouldn't be surprised if you all make your high school teams when the time comes."

Me: "Thanks!"

Dad: "One thing I didn't like was all the swearing, particularly the 'f-word'. Tell me, have you ever heard me use it?"

Me: "Uh...no."

Dad: "Well I have, three times. Because I use it so seldom, no-one expects it but when I do use it, people listen. It's a great word but if you use it constantly, it loses all impact."

Me: "I'd never thought of it like that."

I've tried to remember Dad's lesson but sadly, I fail more often than I'd like. I did pass my Dad's advice along to my son James, and I'm pleased to report he's done a much better job of following it than I ever did. 

Good on him I say.