He took a two-by-four and chopped off about an 18-inch hunk. He broke an old skate in two, hammered the wheels to the two-by, and said, "Here's your skateboard."

He was right of course. In the most literal sense, it was skateboard—a skate hooked to a board ... skate-board, get it?

Granted, it resembled a skateboard in that it rolled (as long as the pavement was very, very smooth), and it rolled while I stood on top of it. In fact, I got so good on it that I could actually hang five (not that anyone would ever know since I had to wear shoes to keep from getting painful splinters from the two-by-four).

I guess I could do just about anything with that old homemade skateboard, expect of course take it out in public (for obvious reasons).

It's been almost 45 years since Dad made me that old 'board. He could get away with it then, but there's no way I could get away with it with my boys.

When my youngest turned 12 way back when, tops on his birthday list was a pair of roller blades.

I know what you're thinking. What an underprivileged child he was ... 12 years old, and no roller blades! My goodness, he had to be the last kid in the neighborhood walking and not rolling! What must the neighbors have thought?

I knew I couldn't just pry the wheels off those old shoe skates he just had to have when he turned 8 (and wore once or twice), line them up in a row and fasten them to a worn out pair of Nikes (sorry, Dad, but I tried).

Nope, I had to make the trip down to Sportmart and pull out the checkbook.

I bring this up now because it's a dilemma that many Los Gatos parents will likely be facing if a skatepark is constructed in town down off Miles Avenue near old Balzer Field. If they haven't already, they'll be heading to the store to purchase a skateboard or a pair of inline skates.

Buying roller blades ... how tough could that be? I'd been buying cleats, bats and balls for decades, and in all modesty I must say that I know my way around an athletic supply store.

But as I walked down the roller blade aisle I felt something of a foreigner—like an American strolling the streets of Paris with my French-to-English dictionary back on the dresser in the motel room.

There were about 20 or 30 different models lining the walls, and they all looked the same to me—except that at the time they ranged in price from $39.95, to $69.95, to $149.95, to the one that simply said, "First born male child" (they're likely much more now). And while the soon-to-be 12-year-old would have had no problem trading his then teen-age brother for a cool pair of blades, I think I would have had a tough time explaining that one to his mom.

So I pondered my decision (couldn't ask for help, of course ... you know, it's kind of a guy thing, like asking for directions). I settled for the $69.95 pair ... middle of the road, not the best but not the worst.

I broke down and explained my situation to a clerk, reputed to be the Sportmart blade expert, so that he might praise me for an excellent choice.

"Excellent choice, sir," he said, and I beamed with a certain self-adulation. But my grin turned to a frown when he added, "Of course now you need the knee pads, the elbow pads, the helmet, the hockey stick, the puck, the goal ... "

A couple of hundred bucks later I was headed to the car, pushing a shopping cart loaded with everything my son needed to make him the Wayne Gretzky of the pavement in our neighborhood.

I couldn't help but think how it didn't cost my dad anything to turn me into a "sidewalk surfer" back in 1960.

But I've got to admit, Dad, your kid didn't look nearly as cool on his wheels as my kid did on his.

Want to talk? Call me at 408.354.3110, ext. 31, or drop me a note at dsparrer@svcn.com.