Columnist Scott Dickensheets: Homer king's kid puts Dad in squeeze play

NOTE TO "Sports Center": Enough with the kid already! Enough slo-mo replays of Mark McGwire triumphantly hoisting his son after every "historic homer," or "titanic blast," or "booming boo-ya" or whatever you're calling them these days. I demand this not because I'm anti-kid -- in fact, the father-son stuff is the most touching part of the McGwire saga. Wets my lids every time.

No, I want it stopped because I have sons of my own, and I think they're beginning to wonder why I never do anything to get them on TV. Why their old man doesn't chase history, break records, draw a nation together, get showered with confetti -- anything to get them in front of the lenses. Clearly, my parenting skills are wanting.

They haven't said anything, of course. It's just how I read the coded signals of their body language, their attitudes. Every time ESPN rolls the McGwire footage, I sense an enviousness. I imagine the questions that must flash across their synapses: When was the last time Dad made us famous so the girls in our class would want our autograph and our clothes would go into some hall of fame?

Therefore, McGwire's well-intentioned display of family values is having the opposite effect in my house. He's defining fatherhood upwards. Soon it will no longer be enough to provide for your kids, to help them with their math even though it hurts your brain, to buy them really cool sneakers and baggy pants, to wire a second room with cable so they can watch "Ren and Stimpy," to comfort them after those nightmares about pterodactyls. Post-McGwire, no childhood will be complete without major face time on national television.

Alas, there's not much televisual about being a lifestyle columnist. We have few records worth breaking. My 62nd column came and went without a single word of congrats -- no standing O in the newsroom, no hugs, no high fives. In fact, people looked downright uncomfortable as I took my victory trot.

In their search for cheap punditry, local newscasts favor heavy-grunters from the op-ed page, treating lifestyle columnists like e-coli -- don't touch that! Even the lesser, "Nevada Week in Review"-ish shows where print people try on their talking heads have no use for the likes of me.

So my TV options are limited, short of being featured in a segment of the news that begins with, "The victim has been identified as ..." Oh, I suppose reality TV holds some potential. I could get busted as a crack mule on "Cops." Get chewed by vicious Chihuahuas for "When Animals Attack." Tape myself in a horrifying Jet ski accident for "Real TV." Cut to: footage of victim's sons as they swell with pride: "Awesome! Did you see how many times Dad flipped before he hit that other boat?"

I've tried to use my influence at the paper to hire my sons as copyboys, much as McGwire juiced his kid into a cushy batboy gig; alas, the powerful Copyboy Union thwarted that. As a columnist whose desperate search for material has lead him all too frequently to write about his family, I think I've given my boys their 15 column inches of fame. But it's not the same as being bear-hugged on TV. This is the '90s; if you ain't on TV, you ain't ... well, you just ain't.

Yeah, it's not easy being a father these days, but, kids, I'm trying. What will I do if McGwire's son ever appears in -- Dad, this would be soooo cool! -- a baseball video game?

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