My step son and I sat on the couch in our living room. The dog was beneath us, curled up in the shadow of my two legs. American Ninja Warrior was on.

This is our thing. You see, it’s hard to have a whole lot in common with a nine year old boy. He likes Skylanders and Minecraft. I don’t. He dances. All of the time. I don’t dance. His energy level hovers somewhere near 10. I wake up at four, and sometimes I make it to seven, but not without repercussions, including but not limited to narcolepsy and aches and pains the following morning.

We play spar; he pits his capoeira against my hsing yi kung fu. That lasts twenty minutes. After that I want to find the nearest comfy chair. This, just as he is about to launch himself into orbit, throwing butterfly kicks in our living and threatening every lamp, mask and piece of electronics.

American Ninja Warrior is our compromise. It’s like being active, without all of that sweating and huffing and puffing. We can sit and watch other people doing cool stuff without risks of bruises or broken dishes. My wife and his older sister retire quietly to another room where they watch something with sequins and sparkles on it, like Dance Moms or Hollywood Ex’s. Me and him watch man stuff with a manly dog laying beneath our feet.

Last week he asked me if I could compete on Ninja Warrior. He said those words without irony or sarcasm. I told him no. I didn’t want to, but I did.

Technically I could compete. I could send them a video, cross my fingers and wait for the invitation. They may even call me, if they have a sense of humor. The question is, how do I push my 210 pound frame through all of those obstacles. If you haven’t seen it, here’s a video. And here is a submission video, from a Ninja Warrior hopeful. What do they all have in common? They are all fit. Very fit. Unlike Wipeout, American Ninja Warrior does not suffer flabby foolishness lightly.

My stepson doesn’t know what I’m thinking when we watch it. Most of my inner dialogue includes the words, “That’s gonna hurt!” I wince and bite my lip. It doesn’t matter if they fall into the water or make it up the salmon ladder, the aches and pains stay on my mind. I think of the tweaked backs and the sprained ankles. At nine, when you hurt yourself, you heal. At 42, when you hurt your body, your body remembers.

He’s thinking that he could do it. He’s kind of jacked for a kid. By the time he hits his twenties he’s going to have a super hero physique. Like his dad. The man is built like henchman number one in every action movie. His biceps are thick. His forearms are bigger than my ankles. His waist, however, is less than mine by more than a few digits. He could do it too.

Which makes me think that I have to do something. Nine year olds adore their fathers and step fathers. All you need is a show and some slap fighting to forge lifelong memories. But one day he’ll be 15 and I will be corny. It’s why I began practicing capoeira. And while I don’t regret stopping, but I do regret not finding something else that we could do together. Because in a few years, that may be the only thing we can talk about.

What do you guys think about father and son bouldering?

If you want to read about my past attempts at fitness, you know what to do. Click here to find out about Rule Number one of the zombie apocalypse, otherwise known as the reason T Dog would have outlived me.

Click here to read about the kettlebell, which is about the only exercise I’ve done, besides kung fu, since capoeira ended.