酷老爸：汤姆·佩罗塔的摇滚梦

I WAS STANDING on the sidelines, drinking tepid coffee from a travel mug, watching my 13-year-old son play yet another game, because that’s what you do on Saturdays when you’re a soccer dad. It was a cold, rainy afternoon. At some point in the endless second half, my friend Eric drifted over to say hi. He said he’d stopped by my house the day before to pick up his son and had heard me play- ing my electric guitar. “You sounded pretty good,” he said. Another dad, a guy named Bill, was standing nearby, close enough to eaves- drop. I still remember the way his head swiveled in my direction and the probing, sidelong look he shot me. …