ON YOUR MARK
Last weekend we had our last ever sporting event as player-parents. It was weird waiting in the arena lobby for C to come out, knowing that it was the end of an era. We never missed any of the girls’ games or meets if we could help it. We were super fans. Stans. Even for the teams where they got completely shellacked every single game. Still there. Still entertained. Once, embarrassed by the how terrible one of the school teams was, H said “you don't have to come, none of the other parents do.” But when the team saw that I thought they were watch-worthy (even though they totally sucked), it morphed into “the team likes it when you come because it gives us someone to play for.” I will miss being that “someone".
While we encouraged our girls to participate in things, we weren’t into uber programming. But we did impose certain requirements during their early years: they should have one creative pursuit, they needed to get their swim levels and they had to have one sport. We felt strongly that because there are so many benefits to being involved in sports: the physical fitness, teamwork, camaraderie, commitment (and something to do on a weekend night other than beer pong) As they got older, they could opt out of these 'required courses', but for about 10 years sports were part of their lives. It turns out that an affinity for sport is a strong indicator in that Nature trumps Nurture. C loved sports - any sports/all sports - but for S sports were a perplexing. We thought that she just needed to find a sport that suited her. So we tried out a few.
There was soccer, which didn’t work out because S couldn’t get over how “rude” the other players were. “They keep just taking the ball from me.” Indeed.
There was synchro, which didn’t work out because S wasn't (understandably) a big fan of doing the eggbeater for two hours every practice. To be fair, I was also a factor. We weren’t allowed to watch the practices (something about keeping the routine “secret” (why??)). So, when I dropped Sophie off for the big recital (or whatever they call it for water dancing), I didn’t know what to expect. Well, I kind of knew, because I had already had to pony up $100 for the custom bathing suit. But I wasn’t remotely prepared for the team “makeup artist” to arrive with a rolling cosmetics trunk the size of a Tokyo apartment. An hour later, S is coated in waterproof (bullet-proof) makeup/indelible marker. She and her team look like a grade school version of Robert Palmer's ‘Addicted to Love’ dancers. To be fair, it made some sense when you watched them swim their routine, because frankly the only synchronized things in that pool were their bright red lips and blue eye shadow.
There was basketball, which she didn’t like because the play kept changing directions, there were "too many rules", too many lines, and “why does that guy keep blowing that whistle?” Despite this she was recruited to her middle school team because the coach was one of those “I can put anyone to good tactical use” coaches. I can only assume the coaching directives were to “get in the face” of the person she was guarding. She took these instructions very literally. She was a human version of a used car dealership inflatable dude. Arms waving frantically, she would do jumping jacks an inch off the other player. Continuously. Regardless of where the play was, or if the game was even in play. Finally, one time, the girl she was guarding snapped and bite S’s arm. It was that enraging. S, rightly, was dumb founded. “She bit me! Can you believe she bit me?!” Honestly? Yes. Yes, I can. [1]
We were starting to despair, until the school “Pumpkin Run” - a just-for-fun cross-country race. As we waited for the pack to wind their way through field and forest and finish off along the track, one of the other parents said to us “I hear S is a really good runner”. “OUR S?”, we ask, perplexed, right when Sophie crests the hill and roars past us to finish way ahead of the rest of her grade - boys and girls alike.
She had found her sport…Or so we thought.
That was before we factored in S’s complete and utter lack of competitiveness, at least when it came to running. She would routinely hang back in a race to lend moral support, “You can do it!” “Keep it up!", to a fellow teammate. Once, she stopped short right before the finish line to let another runner win the race, because “it made her so happy.” This approach to competition drove her coaches to distraction.
For a time, her skill level had her running alongside peers who took the sport very seriously. Kids who were legitimately aspiring to make it to nationals. This might be unusual in other places, but our city seems to have an unusual number of retired professional athletes. Each of the girls have multiple friends that not only aspire to join these hollowed ranks, but for whom it is entirely likely they will. Once at an elementary school graduation, not one, but two, grade six kids announced that when they “grew up” they would be Olympians. Our daughter’s stated dream was to become a “pet groomer.”
In track season one year, S tried a different approach to removing the competition element from competitions. She signed up for Steeplechase, thinking that all the baby-Olympians would focus on the marquee races like the 100m and 400m. The first thing she discovered was that the exact opposite was true, ALL the top ranked runners went in for the steeplechase because of the higher likelihood of making it to Provincials in less populated sports. The second thing she discovered was that pretending to be a horse in 18th century Ireland is diabolically stupid.
As a refresher: a Steeplechase race involves vaulting over walls and water features or both at once. Veteran steeplechasers could clear the vaults like Magnum PI getting into his Ferrari. They would also clear the water features. S not so much. She had never run the race before. She awkwardly clambered over the chest high barrier and lands knee deep in a moat of cold water. And then slips. She is momentarily completely submerged. Not only does she have to complete the race drenched to the bone. The Steeplechase, on account of its ridiculous props, is the first race of the day. Which meant that S had to spend an entire day, in zero-degree temperatures, in wet underwear. Thus, the official end of track and field. Fair.
All that remained was cross country running. I was keen on cross country because it was a ‘two-fer’ sport in our household: we had two kids doing the same activity, in the same location, at the same time. This was an important consideration. There are only so many practices, in so many opposing sides of the city that the child carrier (aka Me/my minivan) could reasonably get to. Especially for sports where the nearest turf or track is a 30-minute drive away - just far enough that you can’t return home in the interim, but also can’t productively occupy yourself on location. No matter the many benefits of sports, there is only so many hours of one can be spend waiting on the literal side lines.
For four years we trucked out to tracks, meets, and running domes. We dealt with the injuries, bought the expensive gear, knew the ins and outs of every course. I probably spent a cumulative 10,000 hours (exaggeration/skewed memory) sitting on various sidelines. Until S finally tells me: “If it’s okay I don’t want to do cross country anymore.”
Me: “Really? Why?”
S: “I don’t like it.”
Me: “Since when?”
S: "Well, actually I have always hated it.”
Right. And that was the official end of cross country. And the official end of our attempt to enforce a sport credit requirement.
I would mark this as parental overreach - given that I unknowingly forced my kid to do something she hated for YEARS. Except for the silver lining that S still loves going for runs. She just can do without starter guns and kids who are so nervous that they are puking on the side of the track. And though she stopped racing, she kept going to school practices to help with warmups and coaching the younger kids. Ironically, winning an MVP award the year after she quit the sport.
All of which is just one more proof that our kids teach us, more than the other way around.
Or at least mine do. For which I am grateful.
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[1] In a truly “are you kidding me?” twist of fate, S would up paired with the same girl as her “buddy” when she moved to a new school in grade 9.
[2] Not only why does this race still exist - why did it ever? At least javelin or pole vault may have been useful skills in attacking a medieval castle. Having athletes imitate a horse feels like a practical joke. When I grow up, I am going to go to the Olympics for Steeplechase.