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YOU CAN’T WATCH
THEM FOREVER
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My 16 year old son came home from his AAU
basketball tournament last weekend with some heartening news.
"Congratulations, Pops," he said as he dropped
his sweat-soaked jersey smack in the middle of our family room. "There
was a dad at our game who is a lot wackier than you."
I felt my heart swell with pride. It was a particularly
poignant moment because my son had banned me from attending the weekend
tournament.
"Did you miss me?" I asked hopefully. "Did
you look up into the stands and hunger for my approving looks? Did you
listen for an ‘attaboy’ that never came? Did you yearn for that slap on
the back and squeeze of the shoulder on the walk back to the car after the
game?"
He plopped down in front of the T.V. "Nope."
"If you didn’t miss those things," I added,
"you surely must have missed my incredibly detailed analysis of your
performance along with those of each and every one of your teammates."
That didn’t even get a response.
"It’s not my fault," I continued. "You
should have picked a sport that I know nothing about, like your brother
did."
His 18 year old brother just finished his final high
school water polo season. Naturally, I was at every game, and even though I
had never played the game nor watched one before he went out for the team, I
managed to offer an analysis after each game. The difference was that both
my son and I knew I was clueless.
Basketball was another story. This was my game. I played
it for 40 years, and have coached it for 15 years. I’m a basketball
junkie. I’ll watch anyone play, anytime. And if it happens to be a kid
with similar DNA as me, all the better.
Besides, most kids appreciate their parents showing an
interest in their pursuits. My parents seldom attended any of my games. I
told my son that therapy has helped, but I’m still struggling with the
sense of abandonment.
I guess it’s all about balance. I think he likes me at
his games, but he also needs a little space. When he announced there was an
obscure off-season AAU weekend tournament that he was attending, and he saw
that I was more excited than he was about the event, he pretty much
panicked.
So I didn’t go. I had better things to do, like walk
the dog. I didn’t need to follow him around and watch him play a stupid
game. I had my own life, and I was very content to do my own thing, like
walk the dog.
"So who won?" I asked, nonchalantly.
Big sigh. "We lost in overtime."
Overtime. I missed an overtime game. He’s got one more
year of high school, and then all my kids are gone. Unless this one grows
seven inches and gains 90 pounds over the next year, this will be the end of
my spectator days, unless he lets me watch him play college intramurals,
which isn’t likely.
That’s why I never miss games. Once it’s over, it’s
over, and it’s over way too soon. I understand the need for space, so I
gave it to him. But I also let him know I’d be there at the next game,
like it or not.
When I go, I’m always positive and encouraging, and
have yet to come onto the court and punch a referee. I just like to watch,
and then offer my priceless analysis after the game.
But I can stand to miss a basketball game or two,
especially after I one-upped my sons on their other sport---tennis. They
both play on their high school tennis team, and tennis happens to be my
second favorite sport. Meaning, of course, that I know everything there is
to know about it.
Two months ago, just before the start of the tennis
season, I came home and told my sons I had good news and bad news.
"What’s the good news?" they asked.
"You both made the cut and are on the tennis
team."
They looked at each other with suspicion, since tryouts
were still a couple of weeks away."
"What’s the bad news?"
I smiled victoriously, knowing I certainly wouldn’t
miss any of their tennis events this spring. "I’m the new head
coach."
Game, set, match.
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