Christopher’s recent tirade against rude skateboarders, together with our Tantrum about fathers, sons, and sports, reminded me of a dream I’ve been harboring: to become a skateboard coach.

The phrase “skateboard coach” itself is kind of a contradiction in terms, at least for a guy like me, who skated for a decade in the late ’80s and early ’90s, when any type of organized or institutionalized learning and training was viewed with distrust/disgust. But a few years ago, while I was driving across the country, I stopped at a skate park in Indiana to fool around on my board. As I cruised around the asphalt and climbed to the deck of the small half-pipe, a kid just starting out came up to me and asked expectantly, “Are you good?”

Obviously, I’m not that good. If I were, I would have more tattoos, get paid to break my ankles, and probably wouldn’t be blogging. But I am, still, even after all this time, good enough. I can get on a board comfortably enough, and break out a few complicated tricks that went out of fashion so long ago that they now seem mysteriously new. At the Gowanus Grind last year—an event to build support and funding for a skatepark in my neighborhood—a few 11-year-old kids glommed onto me for some reason, and I found I liked the feeling of showing them what could be done on a board, and how.

And those aren’t the only young skaters around. The neighborhood is full of them, and the shop Homage runs Saturday morning skate clinics at a nearby school. I keep thinking of offering my services, but haven’t had time (travel will do that to you), and plus, what if I’m actually not quite good enough? I don’t know a damn thing about coaching, but—and I think this is the one area where I fall square in the middle of the typical father-sports spectrum—I feel like just being a father with some capability in a sport qualifies me to teach it to younger people. That’s how it works, right?