There he was, shoulders slumped, tear-stained cheeks, bawling his protest, "Mom, those kids got in my head again, and I can't play!"
And there I was, ponytail through the back of my Nike running cap, Columbia sweatshirt, and a baby in a front pack--the picture of a suburban mom. "I have had it! Get your a*^ on the field and play ball!"
It happened so fast no one caught it on video (I hope).
RJ had a bad week. Kids said hurtful things on the playground at school. He got bruised. A soccer ball pelted him in the chin, twice. He refused to take the field for a game. He cried on the sidelines of another.
He tried to quit. Together, we imagined a Saturday spent at home, working in the yard, reading so many books, and most hurtful, watching his sister take the field while he sits on the sidelines. We tried mental visualization. He visualized taking off his shinguards and cleats, putting them in a donation bag, and walking away. He thought about it. He confessed, "I'm worried because Coach yells at me. I'm scared of his yell." We talked about his feelings. So many feelings. It has been a long season or two. He didn't make the A team. Or the B team. Or the C team. We started at the bottom.
We lost every game. Not just one or two games. Every single game.
He came back for more.
We started winning with our team. I made friends with other soccer moms. RJ made friends on the field. He scored every game. Not just one or two games. Every single game.
And then, without ceremony, he moved up at team. This team is good. Skilled and fast. And the coach towers on the sidelines with a baritone voice that can be heard three fields away. "Good skill boys!" "Yes!" And, occasionally, "When you're playing midfield, you stay in the middle! Don't try to play forward, RJ!"
There were new moms and new kids.
And then the tears.
And more tears.
And more.
I tried to understand. I tried to counsel. I prayed for the boy. But, it turns out, sometimes, what you need is tough love.
Tear stained cheeks, bruised knees, and frozen fingers aside, I have an image of the boy and the game:
Pride.
Skill.
Confidence.
Joy.
Him.
The game is more than a game. It's part of his identity. On good days, it's where he feels most confident. He comes alive.
And, as it turns out, so do I.
I cheer. I pace. I stand, worried, every time he hits the ground (and he goes down a lot).
I cried because he wanted to quit.
And then....
I dragged him out of bed; fed him breakfast and Earl Grey tea (because he's fancy); and deposited him once more on a soccer field. In minutes, he was at my side, tear stained and bawling. And, I did what every good soccer mom would do. I bear hugged him; wiped his tears; handed him a Gatorade; and led him to his chair to rest.
Just kidding.
I told him to get his a%^ on the field and stop bawling. And when the coach yelled at him, and he looked at me with tears in those big blue eyes again, I did the same thing. And at the end of the day:
His uniform is in the laundry basket instead of a donation bag. I might have to burn his cleats, but that's just because of the smell. The game isn't about the win. It isn't about the goals or the rules. It's confidence. It's sportsmanship. It's overcoming fear--no matter how small or big.
And, for us, the game is part of the family.
This sight will always make me smile. Every door is open. Kids are piling in or out.
It's game day.
She doesn't need the confidence boost quite as much.
Skill is what we're aiming for.
What she lacks in size,
she makes up for in determination...and
spirit.
The game has taken us on mini-vacations. It has been the topic of hours of emailed and text messaged discussions. The game has been a challenge. And, the game has given us a parenting paradigm--a place to learn when to talk about our feelings and when to practice tough love.
(By the way, we can talk about our feelings in the van after games or at home--not on the fields--new rule.)
Started from the bottom...
Now he's here.
This. No words. Simply amazing.
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