On a dark and cold winter’s night, I can think of other things I’d rather be doing than shivering on a frigid bench in a musty arena with the unflattering glare of overhead lights shining down upon me.
Come summertime, nothing makes a long, lazy day even longer than having to sit on uncomfortable bleachers watching a bunch of kids chase a ball around a field, or diamond or court.
At least that’s how I feel.
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Never an athletic child or teenager – because I wasn’t exposed to sports, or encouraged to participate nor showed any natural ability – this antipathy toward any sort of sport organized or otherwise has followed me into my adult years.
My three kids all show some promise in the athletic arena. My oldest daughter at 15 has always shown an affinity for running and playing soccer. Just this past year, she set her sights on rugby – not knowing much about it, she attended a few drop-in sessions at a nearby field to learn some basics, tried out (and made) her high school team and opted to continue throughout the summer for a local league.
I really am proud of the fact that she was interested and tried rugby – despite knowing little about the sport and whether she’d even be good at it. Personally, this is a risk I would never take in my own life.
My middle daughter – though more artistically than athletically blessed – pushes herself here and there (though oftentimes it sometimes feels like we are the ones doing most of the pushing).
The thing about her is she’s hesitant to try things outside her comfort zone, gets set on her same-old-same-old routine and is resistant to change things up. I guess the unathletic apple doesn’t fall far from the lethargic tree.
That said, she stubbornly enjoys a challenge and pushes herself when she – and only she – decides. Though not particularly fast, this kid has an unbelievable power kick on the soccer field. The same goes for the judo mat.
I’m proud of the fact that each and every year she runs for her school’s cross country team despite not being very fast or consistent – or even enjoying it all that much. She does it because she wants to and she doesn’t give one sh** what anyone else thinks of her.
My youngest – a son – has asked to try: soccer, baseball, lacrosse, rugby, hockey and football. So far, it seems hockey is what has stuck. He then gravitated toward the position of goalie and has done well so far. He enjoys the sport, seems to be thick-skinned enough to handle the crushing disappointment that sometimes comes along for the ride with the role of goal tender.
I’m proud of the fact that this kid asks, tries and then either moves on or sticks with it – doing so unapologetically and without hesitation.
I’m impressed by all three – for their abilities, their collective endurance, their willingness to participate and to be a team player, for not taking anything too personally and for openly displaying their natural grit for all to see.
But here’s my dirty secret: I don’t always enjoy watching them play their respective sports.
There’s been the odd gorgeous evening – when it’s neither too hot nor too chilly, when the field happens to be situated next to a beautifully shaded park with perfectly placed bench – where I can sit and catch some of the game while also glancing at my Toronto Star.
With a goalie for a son, I have caught the extraordinary break of only having to attend half the hockey games – and even then I only make it out to the local ones.
Don’t get me wrong – I like the fact that my kids take these athletic risks. That they put themselves out there on behalf of a team. It’s nice to hear other parents cheering my own kids on. I just don’t always like it that I have to watch.
On soccer and rugby nights, if there’s even a whiff of rain in the air, you’ll find me holed up in my car – listening to the radio and reading my book as I wait for the game to finish. When a scheduled game (or practice) is cancelled due to inclement weather, I cheer like I never would at an actual game – because it means we have a sudden evening to ourselves – free and clear – to do with what we please so long as it is conducted indoors.
I enjoy it when my kids enjoy themselves. I like it when they have fun and are getting exercise to boot. I couldn’t care less about final scores and who wins. I never yell out advice or instructions (because I’m not a coach) but I also rarely yell out cheers or encouragement (because that’s just not me). I do wave at them when they look my way – to let them know that I see them and am watching. And I have been known to clap when a goal is scored for their team.
I’ve made peace with the fact that when my kids look back on their childhood, they may not necessarily remember me as the parent who attended all their sporting events, who excitedly cheered them on, who was in the stands bragging about which kid is theirs.
Instead, they’ll remember me as the one who took them to any movie they wanted to see, who bribed them to go on hours-long walks together, who told them strange, funny, sad, hilarious stories about her childhood and teen life.
And I’m okay with that.