Are you still alive?

“I know I have disappointed you,” says the father. The son avoids his dad’s gaze. He looks at his cell phone. The messages keep pouring in. ‘Where are you?’ ‘Did something bad happen?’ ‘Can we help you?’ What’s the plan?’ ‘Are you still alive?’

“I should have been clearer at the beginning,” says the father. “But I really wanted to prove you wrong. That I can also be a loving, hardworking, funny, sporty, flexible paterfamilias.”

The sun stares out the window. The sun bounces like a beach ball on the horizon. That’s the kind of evening it’s going to be. The air is full of anticipation. Friends walk hand in hand through the meadows; birds skim the clouds like ardent lovers.

“Honestly, this morning went better than expected,” says the father. “We had set up our tent, I had shaved. I even had my sports clothes on. Of course, not as fancy as Joel’s father’s clothes. But he also runs marathons. And participates in Iron Man competitions.”

The son nods understandingly. His hair falls loosely over his face. As if he wants to isolate himself from his dad?

“Like you, it’s the first time I’ve participated in a father and son weekend,” says the man. “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol all week. And to improve my condition, I even cycled to the supermarket once. Admittedly, I arrived there out of breath.”

The son bursts out laughing. He makes a gesture to stop his father from talking. But the father doesn’t care about his suggestion. He wants to explain. He wants to apologize. To confess?

“It’s a good idea, organizing father and son activities,” says the patriarch. “With a group. With a supervisor. You’re not expected to cut corners. You have to make an effort. You have to open up. I realized pretty soon that these organisers know what they do.”

A group of young women enters. The son follows them attentively. The girls look around. They wink at him. He blushes and looks back at his phone. ‘Are you all okay?’ ‘Why the sudden change?’

“Certainly, I know your friends by name,” says the man. “But their fathers? I never thought about that? A bit stupid of me. Why did I expect them to be bus drivers? Like me. Or otherwise, gardeners, car mechanics, nurses, cleaners or animal trainers.”

The son takes a crumpled folder out of his trouser pocket. The programme for the father-son weekend. All activities are aimed to improve communication and teamwork. Pottery, play dough, making music, running, bouldering, theatre, writing poems.

“The old men of your friends turn out to be lawyers, engineers, doctors or bank directors,” says the father. “With my round head and impressive beer belly, I stand out sharply among their slim, trained bodies. A teddy bear next to a Ken fashion doll,”

The son has kept track of all the activities with a pencil. Scores are given. For the necessary competitive element? For all activities so far, he and his dad have finished in last place.

“Did you see? This morning, they all ate yoghurt with muesli,” says the father. “And they drank litres of smoothies, ate kilos of fruit. We with our cans of Red Bull and ham-and-cheese croissants looked more like truck drivers than serious professionals.”

The phone vibrates. The son now knows the nature of the message. ‘Did something serious happen?’ ‘Do you need our help?’

“And fanatical! It looks like they are participating in the Olympic Games,” says the father. “And how they have prepared themselves. The poems for example. I am glad that in all the hustle I was able to write a few words on the back of a cigar box this afternoon.”

The son turns off his phone. The sun is shining in his face. He smiles at the ladies; he stares at his sweaty old man.

“At some point I was done with it,” says the father. “I suppose that makes me a lousy pedagogue. I’m fine it. But I’m not going to pretend. Once again, I’m sorry for you. But I can’t go on anymore.”

The waiter puts the order down on the table. The son takes his glass, walks over to the father, hugs him and whispers: ‘For me, there is no better activity to get to know each other than in this pub.”