My 8-year-old son has become a voracious reader. As I type this column, he is leaning back in a chair, chugging a grape soda with a paperback balanced on one knee. On the other hand, when he plays video games he looks tense, even stiff.
Last week, the boy came home with a stack of 28 books from the used-book store.
"Wow," I said, "That's a lot of books."
"Mom said I could have them," he said flatly.
When it comes to books, my wife and I have decided to offer our two boys the all-you-can-read buffet. We've even linked our 8-year-old's allowance to his reading habits -- he earns a few pennies for each chapter he reads.
I brought him a new baseball book the other night. He did a little happy dance and then hoisted the book above his head like a trophy.
For about the last three weeks, we have read a chapter a night in a book by sports writer Mike Lupica called "Million-Dollar Throw." We both climb into his double bed and pull up the covers. Then, I read aloud.
The book is about a 13-year-old boy, Nate Brodie, who gets the chance to throw a ball through a target at a New England Patriots game for a million bucks.
Other things happen. His dad loses his job selling houses. His best friend, a girl, is slowly going blind. Worry eats at him from every direction, and he eventually gets benched on an eighth-grade football team.
I could tell my son was deeply interested, but mildly disturbed, by the conflicts in the book. For me, it was a great way to spark discussions with him about unemployment, perseverance and, even, girls.
One night, I arrived at his room to read, and I found my son standing silently in his closet.
"What's wrong," I said.
He wouldn't answer, but instead ran to the bed and covered himself with a comforter.
"What's eating him," I asked my wife, who was watching TV in an adjacent room.
"He's afraid the book won't have a happy ending," she said.
Not knowing what to do, I stopped reading for a couple of nights. Then, one evening while my son was showering, I grabbed the book and scanned the final few pages. Later, I explained to him, "Son, I'm not going to tell you how the book ends. But I think it's safe for us to read more."
"OK," he said, and settled into his side of the bed.
As we launched into the final chapters, the story of Nate Brodie began to brighten. He won back his football job. His dad got a career break. Nate discovered a doctor who might reverse his friend's blindness.
As I read the chapter about his million-dollar throw attempt, I noticed my son's fists were clenched nervously. The covers on his side of the bed were visibly quivering.
He could hear excitement rising in my voice as I read Mr. Lupica's description of the throw: "The (ball) looked like an arrow finding a bull's-eye as it sailed cleanly through the hole. Money."
With those words, my son whipped off his covers and pumped his fist. Then he ran out of the room to tell his mom.
"He made it, Mommy, he made it," he said.
When he returned to the bedroom his faced was filled with joy; three weeks of suspense were gone, poof, in one blissful moment of release.
Ah, the joys of reading.
Let's see a Wii machine do that.