We were on holiday in Venezuela, Isla Margarita, all inclusive.

Our son Stefan was ten. He was bored — not many other kids his age, too much sun, too much poolside. The hotel offered activities every day and I usually ignored them.
One day the activity was volleyball. The hotel’s team against the guests. Stefan wanted to play. My wife looked at me.

“You should join him. Give him something to do.”
“Ok,” I said. Reluctantly.

On the volleyball court we were two groups of five. The guests introduced themselves first.
“Peter,” said a man from Canada. Very quietly.
“Oliver,” said his son. Barely audible.
“Jakob,” said a man from Austria. Softly.
“Stefan,” mumbled my son.

I looked at this row of quiet, polite, sunburned people. We were on a Caribbean island. We were on holiday. Something woke up in me.
I took a step forward. I placed my fists on my chest, then opened them outward—the way Superman tears his shirt open to reveal the S.

“EL TIGRE!” I shouted.

Stefan was so surprised he lost his footing and sat down in the sand.The activity team’s eyes bulged.
Silence.
Then everyone started laughing.

Stefan looked up at me from the sand.
“You’re out of your mind,” he said.

Energy surged through the court — I felt it, and so did the others. We played frantically. The game was more fun than either of us had expected.
Stefan never forgot it. Neither did I.

From my book  The Kitchen Buddha