My kids like to play a game when they jump off the diving board. They can't do gainers or can openers, and diving is a rarity so as they spring off the board they do imitations instead.

My five- year- old son will perform his best Kung Fu Panda with a "Hi- Ya!" and a leg kick before he splashes into the deep end. My youngest daughter, the eight- year- old, prefers to imitate various animals, although sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between her monkey and her elephant. My oldest daughter, who's ten, does running arabesques off the diving board. Technically, she's not really imitating anybody, but she's much closer to copying a ballet dancer than she is to copying Greg Louganis.

The other day my wife took my son and the eight- year- old to the pool. Once they got there, they immediately went to the diving board and started with the imitations. I would hear about these imitations later that day at the dinner table, but I can only remember one, because after I learned of this one, I could focus on nothing else.

My son abandoned his regular karate kicks to pay tribute to his old man. Apparently, he started giggling at the far end of the diving board and yelled to his mommy, "I'm going to do Daddy!"

With that, he started walking slowly to the end of the diving board with his right hand extended outward like he was holding a remote control. He jumped into the air and positioned his feet and the rest of his body so that it looked like he was reclined in a La- Z- Boy all the while furiously clicking on that imaginary remote control.

Click- Click- Click! Recline. Splash!

He was so proud of his mimicry that he could hardly swim to the ladder from all the pats on the back he was giving himself. He was still laughing when he told me about it that night.

As he continued to amuse himself, I asked myself, "Is this the same kid I tried to coax back into bed for three- and- a- half sleepless years? Is this the kid whose T- ball team I coach? Is this the kid I pitch to for hours under a relentless sun so he can get just one hit? Is this the kid I play soccer with in the backyard and checkers with on rainy days? Is this the kid I read to almost daily?"

He looked like the same kid, but would my son think of me as nothing more than a blob in a chair with a remote control? Apparently so.

I'll admit, back in my college days, a remote control was as much a part of my look as a hat and a pair of Duck Heads, but I like to think I've evolved a little since then. Now I spend the vast majority of my free time playing ping pong and four square and just about anything else my kids want to play, but, alas, I don't get any credit.

I guess I could throw 400 pitches, kick a 1,000 soccer balls, and double- jump an entire checkerboard, and I'm still going to be the old man flipping channels. That thought is both depressing, and, I'll admit, slightly liberating. Perception is reality and if reality is me kicked back in a La- Z- Boy channel surfing, then pass the TV Guide! I've got some shows to catch up on.