So when he begged for a year straight to play football, I gave-in and vowed to go to his mother, the lady who brought him forth into this world, and say "He gets to try it. If he likes it, fine, if not - well at least he will know why not."
Fifty years ago, in my grandfather's generation, they would have called it "putting your foot down." In 2010 we call those ancient times "the good old days." But after a much more cosmopolitan discussion with his mom, and no putting down of feet, his mother relented and agreed to let him play. I am certain she did it just to shut us both up. She also let me know in no uncertain terms that if her beautiful boy suffered any injury that it would be my...well...let's just say she used a word not fit for a lady or for this family column...but she made her point well known that she expected her son to finish football in the same fine condition physically that he was in when he started.
Along the way she also said he did not have the temperament for football, was not aggressive, "did not spit." I wondered what "spitting" had to do with playing football in her eyes, but ultimately we all threw ourselves into almost three months of football together. We worried about him plenty, but, just looking at him, I knew he could keep up with anyone out on the field, right? Strong, smart, and fast. Exactly what he needed.
Well, you know how they say that nobody knows their child like a mom knows her child?
Football season rolls around and we sign the boy wonder up. And the first five practices are all fitness and conditioning - he loves it - he is a running, push-up, jumping jack doing machine and is having the time of his life.
Problem was, eventually they issued helmets and pads and started expecting the kids to hit each other. The boy wonder, who was raised "...not to solve problems using his fists..." didn't really understand the concept of hitting. After the first practice in full pads I am sure, however, our first born firmly grasped the concept of "being hit."
So football was not an easy experience for our family. His coaches, I am sure, sensed his unique brand of "Woody Allen-like" ferocity, I was terrified that if he didn't get more aggressive he wouldn't be able to protect himself, and his mom was spent emotionally over the concern that her terrific little kid would somehow be morphed into a flesh eating axe killer by three months of Rocket Football.
So over the course of the season, while I argued with his coaches for more playing time, and with him to protect himself, and his mom to not worry so much, he seemed to be working on his own agenda - survival.
Please understand that he is a beautiful kid inside and out. Ten times - no - scratch that - 100 times the child I was when I was his age. But let's just say this; he is not overly burdened with aggression. He is incredibly competitive but his is ultimately a compassionate soul. Turns out his mom did indeed know him better than any of the rest of us. By the end of football season we were all ready to celebrate - him for surviving, and me and his mom for making it to the end of what was a contentious season for our family. Contentious because I kept wanting him to play harder and play more; and for her wanting him to come home with all his Chiclets front and center and his bones, tendons, and ligaments still attached in all the right places.
I have to share that, after the second to the last game of the season, having watched him practice just as hard as any other kid on the team, I told him he could quit the team if he wasn't having fun. That was a reversal of my deal with him when I told him I would "go to bat" for him with his mom over football. I said I would do that but if he played, he couldn't quit. He had to stick it out for the season.
I told him I thought he was being taken advantage of. He never missed a practice, never talked back to his coaches, never quit. He just wasn't real big into the whole "football aspect" of football. Consequently, the coaches never played him. Understandable and true if you are coaching at the high school level, but this was a community league and this was his first exposure to the sport. So I was miffed.
My miffedness escalated dramatically when family traveled from all over to an away game and my son got put in with 17 seconds to play in the 4th quarter and our team up by three touchdowns. It was the only game that team won all season.
So after another game where he was only allowed in on a couple of plays; after working his butt off for the better part of two and half months, I said to him that if he wanted to quit I would turn his gear in myself. I expected him to jump at the chance.
Instead, he looked up at me, arms covered in bruises from practice, after having played exactly two snaps in the previous game, and said "Dad, this is a little town. I am going to see those guys at school for a long time. No one out there is going to be able to call me a quitter. They can do whatever they want to me, but I'm not quitting."
I was proud and relieved and angry all at once. Proud because of how insightful he was at just 9 years old. Relieved because I was secretly hoping he would stick it out; and angry because I felt the coaches were just wrong. None of it matters now, but I was livid then.
But that moment when he told me he wasn't quitting revealed more character in him than would have been created if he played every snap of every game all season. I could not have been more proud of him. So we agreed that his last game would be fun. He could do whatever he wanted, play if he wanted, sit if he wanted. He was expected to give a good effort in practice and also if he got to play, but we weren't going to have any more fights, either me with his coaches or between him and me, about football.
He played a lot the last game of the season - even made a spectacular tackle that he never got credit for. I remember that they did not win but I don't remember the score. What I do remember is that I saw in him what he was really made of that day he refused to quit and how happy we both were driving away from the grid-iron that day. High fives and laughter all around, I remember that scene vividly.
So fall rolls around this year and we asked him what does he want to do. He plays basketball and baseball but with no football this fall, what did he think he was going to do with all his free time?
"Fencing, really" I said to him. "Son, we live in a small town - this is not exactly the fencing capitol of the world. In fact our small town is probably not the "anything" capitol of the world so how the heck are we going to pull off fencing?"
Well, as it turns out we are close to a town with a major university and there is a fencing coach there who teaches youth fencing as part of the community recreation program. So this fall I am proud and happy to report that my son, who attacked offensive lines with all the aggression and ferocity of your average cat burglar sneaking through a darkened museum, is Zorro when you actually put a saber in his hands.
Thanks for stopping by my blog. Here's hoping that whatever you are doing with your kids this fall, it is fun for all and that everybody comes home with all their "Chiclets front and center."Dennis
P.S. What prompted this entry today was my reading of a news article about the suicide of a Penn State University football player who, after his death, was discovered to have chronic traumatic encephalopathy - a disease of the brain associated with repeated injuries.
I do not question the judgment of any parent letting their kids play football or any other sport, it's up to the parents and the kid. But I wanted to throw this out there in the hopes that, as we continue to raise the awareness of kids playing while hurt, we also raise the awareness of the long term consequences of concussions and other chronic brain injuries associated with sports.
