My own squirming, crying bundle of perspective

Please forgive me if I don't seem quite as fired up about the start of high school football season this year as in years past.

Please forgive me if I couldn't be bothered to get excited (or annoyed) about Brett Favre's most recent return to the NFL.

Please forgive me if I can't remember exactly how many games up the Atlanta Braves are in the National League East.

Please forgive me if I seem a little spacey or if I have spit-up stains on my shirt the next time you see me.

I've been a bit preoccupied honing my diaper-changing skills and getting to know a little all-star named Truman Dean Jarrett, who came into this world at 9:27 p.m. on Aug. 5 as an 8-pound, 10-ounce, bundle of awesomeness.

Naturally, I hope he loves sports as much as his mother and I do.

We tried to give him a head start in that department by decking out his nursery with vintage sports photos and memorabilia -- Ernie Banks and Hank Aaron overlook his crib, and the 1980 U.S. hockey team celebrates the "Miracle on Ice" a couple feet from where he gets his diapers changed -- and you can be sure he'll be propped up in front of a TV every Saturday and Sunday this fall for a healthy dose of football.

Selfishly, I hope he gets more athleticism out of our genes than I did. Early indications point toward swimming, soccer or boxing -- yeah, right, as if I would let that happen -- because those arms and legs NEVER stop flailing when he's awake, but I'm sure I'll give a gentle nudge toward my favorite sports.

I would love to be the proudest pop in the crowd when he breaks free for a touchdown, drives in the winning run, sinks a long birdie putt or buries a clutch 3-pointer.

Realistically, I'll be just as proud when he makes a tackle on special teams, lays off a tough breaking ball to work a walk, plays a routine pop-up into a shoestring catch, keeps most of his tee shots in the fairway or makes an occasional layup in mop-up duty.

Heck, I'll be just as proud if none of his accomplishments happen on the field, course or court. I'll have the video camera at the ready for piano concerts, dance recitals, plays or American Idol auditions, if that's what makes him happy.

For months, friends and family members have told me of the indescribable feeling that would wash over me the first moment that I met my son.

They were wrong. It didn't even take that long.

As soon as I heard him cry, my eyes filled with tears. Before I even saw his face, I was in love, and when I saw the look on my wife's face, I knew her switch had flipped too.

It was the perfect moment, even better than I imagined it would be when the Cubs finally won the World Series or Missouri claimed a national title.

My life changed forever, just like everyone said it would.

If the past two weeks have taught me anything, it's that all I want in this life is to make him happy. And that I can be a semi-functioning human being on four hours of sleep. But back to the first point, my sole desire is to give my son what he needs, and it suddenly seems so petty to get worked up about balls and strikes, touchdowns and interceptions, fouls and free throws.

So please forgive me if nothing else matters quite as much as it used to, at least for a little while.