More often than not, our practice sessions in the living room dissolved into fits of breathless, tear-inducing laughter. But through the bruised toes and the utter humiliation, he never once suggested we stop. He never surrendered.
One humid afternoon, we secured permission to use the school gymnasium for a dress rehearsal. A few lingering parents and faculty members paused by the open double doors to observe the spectacle. Some offered polite, confused smiles. A few openly snickered behind their hands. One particularly brave father actually offered a slow, sarcastic clap.
Dad simply ignored them. He kept counting the beats under his breath, sweating profusely, trying desperately to execute a basic plié. Even when he looked utterly ridiculous. Especially when he looked ridiculous.
A few days before the grand event, the roar of a customized Harley-Davidson shattered the quiet of our suburban street. It was Rick, the hulking, heavily tattooed vice president of Dad’s motorcycle club. They stood in the driveway, voices low, while I sat on the porch swing pretending to read a book.
Rick shook his head, a look of profound disbelief on his weathered face. “You’re seriously getting up on a stage in front of hundreds of people to do a ballet routine?” he asked, his tone dripping with skepticism.
