I am not naturally graceful. As a boy, I cast a shadow like a keyhole—a melon head atop a stick-figure body, careening through the world in whatever direction my topmost orb led me. As a teen, I lived in a narrow trailer house with my folks and spent two miserable weeks after my dad’s foot surgery finding every possible way to pinball into his elevated leg and throbbing big toe.
Today I am much the same: I move effortlessly, like an October acorn pinging from roof to car to driveway. I still drift the way I’m leaning and collide with stationary objects, softly as a poolside preschooler wearing swim-fins.
And yet, somewhere on the outer ends of my Y-chromosome is coded an instinct for self-preservation, which (to date) has kept me physically intact and free of broken bones or stitches.
At times, this manly capability manifests in an almost miraculous fashion. The day-to-day phenomenon, however, is not particularly glorious, so I will give just two examples:
- As you might guess, I have never been much of an athlete. My only claim to fame in all my years of school sports is that, aside from my rookie season of wrestling in seventh grade, I proved nearly impossible to pin. I could be (and often was) taken to the mat repeatedly and hard; contorted, stretched, rolled, and racked; suffocated and cursed; and would yet spend four and a half minutes of a six-minute match with one shoulder two inches off the mat, whispering in the ear of my adversary, “You can’t stick me.”
- As a grown man living in the great, white north, where the footing is questionable eight months out of the year, I rarely fall and never (knock wood) get seriously hurt. In times of sudden instability, I automatically execute defensive maneuvers with great speed and dexterity. The Windmill. The Slip-Stomp. The Penguin-Takes-Flight. Ice, snow, or mud may make me look momentarily ridiculous, but they rarely bring me to the ground.
Those occasions when I do fall are spectacular, but harmless. The winter before last I stepped out the front door to start Jodi’s car with my head high, drawing a deep breath of crisp morning air and smiling—completely unaware that the first step down was clear-coated with thin layer of ice. In a fraction of a second, both feet flew high in the air, which should have accelerated my unprotected cranium toward the concrete porch behind me. Instead, with the dexterity of kung fu master, I manage to spin on two axes in mid-air and come down on my back in the snow, which had previously been across the sidewalk in front of me.
I lay there a long moment, contemplating the dark winter morning, the goodness of God, and the apparent immobilization of every joint in my body. Then I remembered to breathe. After two ragged gasps, I turned over and clambered to my hands and knees, groaned, and rose. Everything worked. No blood. No bruises. Just a halo of tiny stars circling my blessed head as I staggered to Jodi’s car.
A fluke, you say? One magnificent fall without injury does not comprise a pattern? Read on!
In summer of 2019, our whole family (including Becky, who, at that point, still could have turned back) undertook a summer road trip to Glacier National Park with our dear friends, the Andres clan of Michigan. Somewhere in east or central Montana, we stopped for a bathroom break and snacks. It was a beautiful day under the proverbial big skies, and I was quite taken with it all. I went into a little convenience store, purchased a foam cup of strong, black coffee with a plastic lid, and reemerged into the summer sun and cool morning breeze.
I missed the curb.
Both the Andres family and my own crew saw me go down: forward at first—a sure-fire faceplant on the asphalt in an explosion of hot coffee—except, somehow, I planted my knees hard on the pavement, then rolled to my back…without spilling my coffee!
My bride and our friend Todd rushed to where I lay flat on the street, except for my right hand, which was extended above me, holding steaming cup of joe like Lady Liberty’s torch, the foam cup, unbroken, the lid still tight. They shook their heads in disbelief. I’m sure their laughter was the nervous sort.
How is it that a tall, 235-pound man in his 40s can stumble, spin, and fall flat without injury and without spilling his coffee? I give you: the Dad-Roll.
The Dad-Roll is instinctive—I no more thought about it than a cat thinks of twisting its body to land on its feet—but it’s more than mere self-preservation. In this first case, my body and autonomic brain worked in a quick and coordinated fashion to keep my coffee intact as well.
As men, I believe we are created by God to protect and provide, and I was unconsciously determined to do so. But I am also a student of evolutionary theory: Could not the Dad-Roll be a prehistoric development among our bipedal ancestors who, once they rose on two legs and began carrying things off (sticks and stones, foodstuff, or women from the neighboring tribes), found they were prone to pursuit, to falling, and to losing or damaging their precious goods? [1]
You may say that, however exceptional it may be that I fell off a curb and did not break my neck or spill my coffee, it is not so exceptional as to be called a gift or a grace. In that case, let me share one more story.
This January Jodi and I were blessed to visit Brendan, Becky, and our grandsons in Italy with our son Gabe, who is discerning religious life with a group of Franciscan friars in New York City. As a fledgling Franciscan, the quaint city of Assisi was high on his list of places to visit. We spent three peaceful days there, roaming the cobblestone streets, praying in beautiful medieval churches, and enjoying quality time with the little ones. In this latter circumstance, one afternoon I found myself carrying our three-year-old grandson Augie—who, incidentally, had his left arm in a cast from a fracture several weeks before—down a steep cobblestone road in a light rain, which lubricated the uneven surface just enough to make the footing questionable, even for a man of my apparent capabilities.
I picked my way slowly down the hill, last in our line of pedestrians, close to the walls of the stone shops and homes that lined the street. As much as possible I kept my eyes on the pavers and bantered with the little boy in my arms in hopes of keeping his mind occupied so he would make no sudden movements to upend us. For his part, Augie sat in the crook of my left arm, clinging to me with his good arm and gesturing stiffly with the other, watching backward and forward for cars, strollers, scooters, and more outlandish modes of transit and announcing whether or not he saw them: “Is there a garbage truck coming? Not yet!” “Is there an elephant coming? Not yet!”
At last we were in view of the main piazza. The narrow street leveled, and I began to relax and breathe more easily.
At the end of the street, just where it emerged into the square, stood a row of cast iron posts, solid and silent, such as a knight might have tied his horse to in ancient times. I saw the one on my right. The one on my left was entirely blocked by my oblivious grandson.
I felt my left foot collide with something immoveable. My shin scraped against the same obstacle, and I felt us fall forward toward the dark cobblestones. I reached up my free hand to cradle Augie’s head and saw nothing until my eyes opened on the gray skies. My grandson lay on my chest, crying loudly.
Becky was crouched over us, her eyes anxious, lifting her frightened son, checking him for injuries and speaking comfort as only a mother can. An Italian stranger helped me to my feet and an old woman brought us a glass of water from the nearby café.
Jodi asked if I was alright. I was badly shaken, but everything seemed present and functional.
“I am,” I said. “How’s the little man?”
Becky was moving his arms—the broken and the good. No pain. No scrapes, bumps, or bruises to speak of. Just a frightened preschooler who, through his sobs and sniffles, asked if his Dziadzi was okay.
“I’m okay, buddy,” I said. “I am so, so sorry!”
We made our way to a nearby table, and Jodi bought some chips at the bar so we could claim the space and sit. Traffic in the square continued. Pigeons flapped and strutted, looking for crumbs. Heart rates slowed. Miraculously, we were both fine.
I closed my eyes and replayed the few seconds of blackness between the unseen obstacle and the gray sky. Foot, then shin, met the hitching post. Judging from the dirty scuffs on my khakis, I fell forward to my knees while reaching to protect Augie’s little blonde head. From the soft throb in my right shoulder, I must’ve dropped sideways from there, onto my right side and away from him and his broken arm. Then, I suppose, I rolled to my back and opened my eyes.
A perfectly executed Dad-Roll.
I worried that the fall may have cemented my “old man” status, and I would no longer be allowed to carry the boys, but later that day, I was blessed to have both Augie and Chuck in my arms again (separately, of course). I took Tylenol before bed and rose the next morning to…nothing. No aches. No stiffness.
Two days later, Augie’s cast was removed by a doctor in Rome, his broken arm fully healed. We were both—truly—fine.
Is there an ambulance coming? Not yet!
[1] I do not draw parallels with the Quick-Drop, made popular by a social media video of a man who fielded a foul tip at a baseball game without spilling his beer by briefly releasing the baby on his arm, catching the ball, then catching the baby before it descended below waist level. Despite superficial similarities, this man’s maneuver showed a clear disregard for self-preservation—especially since it was performed on camera, where the child’s mother might see.
Archangel Stomp 