My oldest son came home the other day with quite a tale to tell.

“I ran a 6-minute mile!”

“Wow,” I said. I don’t know much about mile times, but that sounded fast for a twelve-year old. “Did you win?”

“Nah. I came in third. The guy who won finished in five and a half minutes.”

“No way.”

“That’s what coach said. He didn’t believe our times.”

“That is crazy fast. My fastest mile was four minutes and fifty four seconds, and I was a senior in high school.”

“Yep.” He nodded. “I’m pretty fast.”

That was a bit too much for me. “Can’t wait to see it on the soccer field,” I said. “I mean, if you can run a six-minute mile, you’ve got to be the fastest guy on the field.”

“What? No. I didn’t say I was that – ”

“I can’t wait to see you in action. I mean, a six-minute mile! Wow.”

“Da-ad!”

That was last week. At the time, I thought it was just a bit of silliness. I have to admit, though, that during Saturday’s soccer game, he ran really, really hard.

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