You Will Miss This

April 24, 2016

You will miss the soccer cleats, and baseball bags, the clink of metal bats and dusty dirty dugouts. Mouth guards, and shin guards, goggles, water bottles, even pinneys. Whistles, and refs, fields, and fields, and fields, and goals. Lacrosse sticks, and baseball mitts, gymnastic grips, time outs, and half times. Team dinners, and high fives, thank you to coaches, always thank you to those coaches, and driving, and driving, still driving. I will even miss the driving, the conversations and time together.

Once I woke my son at 5:45 a.m. for a tournament, a dark morning, not even a star to light the winter sky, nudged him gently and whispered, “let’s go win some soccer games.” His eyes still shut, he turned his face to me, and with a sleepy smile asked, “Mom, is this what Ronaldo does?” Yes, my dreamer, it is.

My son held his new bat is his hands, felt the weight of it and turned it about as he said to himself, lost in the moment, “I am going to hit a lot of home runs with this.” And then my youngest takes center stage, ready for the face off, lacrosse stick to lacrosse stick, girl to girl, french braids, and pony tails, grit and will. My oldest, her gazelle legs dancing down the field, or walking off from practice, water bottle in hand, with fleets of girls with sticks flung over their shoulder, cheeks flushed, taking a chance at glory.

My son took to the mound, a tough inning and his coach asked, do you want to pitch again. And I remember him on the beach in Connecticut at 3, standing on a rock and throwing imaginary balls. I asked him what he was doing, he replied, “I am standing on the little hill, throwing speedy balls.” And here is at 10, getting back out there, trying again, this time striking down the side, taking down the opponents, one pitch at a time. His form perfectly executed and choreographed, the karate kid takes the mound.

3 children. 3 travel sports. Plus baseball, and gymnastics. And depending on the season, soccer, and field hockey, and basketball, sometimes track. I tell my friend I need a chauffeur cap, black with a dapper patent leather rim, black gloves to my wrist. Here, allow me, as I drive my team to fields across town, and drop, and drop, and pick up, and pick up. And cheer, and cheer, and console or celebrate.

And I remember this past fall, a little boy at my daughter’s soccer game, on the sideline in a patch of dirt with his match box cars. Lined up just as my son did at his age. In overalls, as my son wore, lost in his play. And I felt an ache missing him at that age. Now on the playground, on the cusp of the preteen years.

We will miss this. The refs with the bad calls, the can you believe its, and way to gos, the underdogs, and full court press. The pep talks, and psychology, and who can believe how much of life is psychology, especially athletics.

This is why I drive. And drive. And write out schedules. And draw out my weekend, time grids, and alignment, carpools, and signing up to bring snacks for the game. And cheer. And cheer. And cheer. And pack lunch, and picnics, and sunscreens, and did you remember your water bottles.

Because it never really was about the game. It was always about us.