I’m writing from the Russellville Skate Park.

This is a real deal skate park with a half pipe, and rails, and everything.

I don’t know if those are the proper terms. I don’t know much about skateboarding. My son doesn’t either. He just saw the sign from the Kroger parking lot the other day and asked if he could drive his remote-control car over the ramps.

He really loves ramps, but turns out, RC cars aren’t allowed at the park.

“How about my bike?” he said.

I rescanned the website. “Yeah, bikes are cool.”

But not that cool. Or at least I didn’t feel cool when I rolled up to the skatepark in my four-door Ford with two mountain bikes dangling over the tailgate.

There are three other dudes at the park. One of them has the same hairdo as my son.

“That guy’s got a man bun.”

“Sure does, bub.”

“And a remote-control car.”

I do a double take, and I’ll be durned if Man Bun doesn’t have an RC car. My son approaches him, hoping, maybe, that they’ll bond over their choice in hairstyles.

“Can I drive your car?”

Nothing. Nada. Man Bun doesn’t even look at him.

“Sir. Can I drive your car?”

Man Bun trades the car out for his board and hits the halfpipe.

I make my way to the highest point in the park. From here, I can keep an eye on my son. His mountain bike probably isn’t the best option, but he’s giving it his best.

There’s a kid on rollerblades here too. He’s from my son’s school. He’s the son of one of the other guys, the cool dads, apparently, or at least one of them is. I try to pick the father out of the lineup.

Man Bun’s out, obviously.

What about the shirtless guy on the BMX bike?

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No, probably not.

“Hey, man. I told you to leave those bugs alone.”

That sounds like something a dad, or at least a cool dad, might say.

“Don’t mess with it. That bug didn’t do nothing to you.”

The rollerblade kid gives a halfhearted thumbs up and rolls on.

It’s the first thing I’ve witnessed at the skatepark that I understand, a form of communication that makes sense to me. I’m standing there, high up on my perch, reconsidering my prejudices, the narrow lens through which I view the world, when my son hits the halfpipe and faceplants.

His legs go full-on scorpion tail. His toes tap the top of his helmet. By the time he flattens back out, I’m there, crouching beside him.

“Are you—”

Before I can finish the sentence, he’s up again. His hair’s a mess. His man bun’s come undone. But other than that, he’s in good shape.

“That was,” he says and pauses to remount his bike, “fun!”

“It was?”

He answers me with action. A quick pump of the pedals and off he goes, up and over the ramps, headed straight back toward the halfpipe that just took him down.

I half expect the other guys to clap, but they don’t. Man Bun’s playing with his RC car. Shirtless dude’s taking a smoke break. And the rollerblade kid’s in timeout. He must’ve finally squished that bug.

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