THERE WAS A GENUINE Kodak moment last week in Game 3 of the World Series. Baseball great Willie Mays threw out the opening pitch to Barry Bonds. What made it so special was that Mays is Bonds’s godfather. It made me feel warm and fuzzy inside, seeing them play catch together and afterwards fondly embrace. It made me feel hopeful that one day I, too, can be as good a godfather as Willie Mays and see my godchild go on to do great things. Also last week, my sister asked me if I wanted to go in on a gift certificate for Sam, whose birthday had already passed. “Sam? Who’s he?” I asked. “She is your godchild,” snipped my sister, disappointed. I, however, was mainly annoyed at the discovery of this apparently forgotten godchild. “Another one?” was my spontaneous reply. My sister called me heartless and a few other things. It was then that it began to dawn on me that I had become a deadbeat godfather. This is a name rarely spoken aloud but one that applies to millions of adults and affects millions of children–children who grow up hearing about some mythical godparent and praying that this person will send them a gift on their birthday or on Christmas. But each year the prayer goes unanswered. Soon the children forget about godparents altogether–that is, until as grownups they are asked to be godparents themselves. This happened to me eight years ago when my cousin had her first child. She asked me to be godfather, and, deeply moved by this Corleonean gesture, I readily accepted. Indeed, “The Godfather” affected my view of the honor, lending it an air of dark and mysterious power. I’d always wanted to drop lines like, “I’ve decided to be godfather to Connie’s baby. And then I’ll meet with Barzini.” My mother, on the other hand, was wary: “I would think carefully before accepting.” She reminded me of the spiritual responsibilities, while my father mentioned the financial aspect. “When they get older, they’ll be asking for money,” he warned. Apparently, whenever my father goes home to the Philippines, he is hit up for cash by dozens of relatives all claiming to be his godchildren. But not me. I would be a better godfather than my old man–the Engelbert Humperdinck of deadbeat godfathers. (Humperdinck once joked that, in order to accommodate all his children, he had to celebrate Father’s Day at the Rose Bowl.) Instead, I would look to role models like my friend Buck, who became godfather to his frat brother’s son while they were still in college. It was always awe-inspiring to hear him say he couldn’t go out because of his godson’s birthday. Or his first communion. Or his bar mitzvah. (There are those who suspect this godson is just an excuse–no one has ever actually met the boy.) Still, I couldn’t have been prouder to attend my first godchild’s christening. In the process I learned there was a second godfather–my cousin’s brother-in-law. This only made me more determined to be the best godfather ever, unfailingly remembering birthdays and other holidays. I haven’t seen the kid in six years now. Not that this is all my fault. When my cousin, who lives in Phoenix, had her second child, she again asked if I would be godfather. Then the same thing happened with her third–Samantha. How does one say no? So now my sister reminds me about these children’s birthdays, Christmas, Easter, Halloween, and Thanksgiving. And I am left wondering how I got myself into this mess in the first place. The answer is quite clear: Statistics will one day show that deadbeat godfathers, much like lousy absentee real fathers, are part of a vicious cycle. More than likely, the deadbeat godfather was once the victim of a deadbeat himself. This certainly applies to me. I have no recollection of my own godfather, though he appears in the pictures from my baptism. No cards or gifts. I wouldn’t recognize him if I passed him on the street. Last I heard, he was somewhere in Texas. It’s a good thing there aren’t any laws against deadbeat godfathers. I’d be the first one in jail, owing thousands of dollars in back-payments for godchild support. Though I daresay I wouldn’t be alone. There ought to be a counseling center for deadbeat godfathers like me, and ways to treat our disability and break this terrible cycle. Maybe after spending some time in a good-godparenting clinic, I would make an earnest effort to find out when exactly my godchildren’s birthdays are, fly out for the parties, and forever be a wondrous part of their lives. It would also help if at least one of these children were named Barry Bonds. –Victorino Matus
