Email this page
Print this page
del.icio.us
digg
Feed
Almost everyone I know loves a sport: They’ve played it, watched it, maybe even been part of the smells and sounds of it at Fenway, Alfond, Madison Square Garden, Indianapolis Speedway, or one of those new super stadiums that have almost no history other than the one being made in that very moment. They follow the scores, can spout stats from 1904, 1973, even the obscure years in which nothing monumental occurred. They know players and numbers.
I have friends I avoid calling at certain times in certain seasons. If they answer the phone, they will expect some kind of over-the-top reaction to a play, a score. Sometimes I forget and find myself picking up the phone to talk about the state of the world, to read a stunning poem I have stumbled on.
“Man, did you see it? I don’t believe it. Brady did it again,” a friend says.
“Hey, you,” I say.
“Oh, it’s you,” he replies. I know that sounds like a sorry reaction, but it’s not really. Any other time he’d be glad to hear from me. But I am not the person anyone will ever have a sports conversation with. I grew up in Boston and have never even been to Fenway Park, don’t follow the Red Sox, the Patriots, the Celtics, or Bruins. My sports literacy is limited to being able to name the teams, what they play, and a bit of the equipment—a bat, a ball, a helmet, skates. Oh yeah, and I know someone wears cleats, but I always forget who.
Ask my kids and they will tell you that I showed up at every game they ever played (soccer, wrestling, baseball—one for each season), but I never learned enough about the rules, the dynamics, for them to be assured I’d be cheering for the right team. Right up until my oldest son’s senior year in high school, I could sometimes be seen running alongside the soccer field in the wrong direction, whooping it up at the top of my lungs. A quiet confused mother is better than a loud one.
I am grateful, however, that at my most confused, I was quiet. So although I could not imagine my son wrestling, benefiting from twisting another human being into a pretzel or sitting on someone’s head, or vice versa, I kept my mouth shut and let him.
Now that I think about it, I am sure that he learned some of his most important life lessons on the wrestling mat:
One: If you want something, go after it, make it happen, even if it seems impossible. Katahdin High School didn’t have a wrestling team, but that didn’t stop him. The coach at Southern Aroostook (note: arch rival schools; bless that coach, those players) let my son practice with his team.
Two: Boundaries are artificial structures. Reach across them and someone will reach back. During school breaks, he was invited to practice with the Madawaska team, the Howland team, and he would pack a duffel bag for a few days. His rivals taught him moves, guided him, made him a more formidable opponent.
Three: Trappings are only trappings. He had no uniform and didn’t care. He was doing something he loved.
Four: Win or lose, do it with dignity. Each match began with the opponents shaking hands, and ended the same way.
At the state competitions, everyone cheered for the boy with no uniform, a borrowed coach, no legion of teammates with their families, the boy with a lot of heart.
I’m glad to let all you parents and players who were witness to those meets that the boy with a lot of heart is now the man with a lot of heart and he passes on every one of those lessons every day.
Annaliese Jakimides continues to publish poems, essays, and short fiction in a variety of venues, including National Public Radio, where she recently read her essay on This I Believe (archived at www.thisibelieve.org).
I have friends I avoid calling at certain times in certain seasons. If they answer the phone, they will expect some kind of over-the-top reaction to a play, a score. Sometimes I forget and find myself picking up the phone to talk about the state of the world, to read a stunning poem I have stumbled on.
“Man, did you see it? I don’t believe it. Brady did it again,” a friend says.
“Hey, you,” I say.
“Oh, it’s you,” he replies. I know that sounds like a sorry reaction, but it’s not really. Any other time he’d be glad to hear from me. But I am not the person anyone will ever have a sports conversation with. I grew up in Boston and have never even been to Fenway Park, don’t follow the Red Sox, the Patriots, the Celtics, or Bruins. My sports literacy is limited to being able to name the teams, what they play, and a bit of the equipment—a bat, a ball, a helmet, skates. Oh yeah, and I know someone wears cleats, but I always forget who.
Advertisement
Ask my kids and they will tell you that I showed up at every game they ever played (soccer, wrestling, baseball—one for each season), but I never learned enough about the rules, the dynamics, for them to be assured I’d be cheering for the right team. Right up until my oldest son’s senior year in high school, I could sometimes be seen running alongside the soccer field in the wrong direction, whooping it up at the top of my lungs. A quiet confused mother is better than a loud one.
I am grateful, however, that at my most confused, I was quiet. So although I could not imagine my son wrestling, benefiting from twisting another human being into a pretzel or sitting on someone’s head, or vice versa, I kept my mouth shut and let him.
Now that I think about it, I am sure that he learned some of his most important life lessons on the wrestling mat:
One: If you want something, go after it, make it happen, even if it seems impossible. Katahdin High School didn’t have a wrestling team, but that didn’t stop him. The coach at Southern Aroostook (note: arch rival schools; bless that coach, those players) let my son practice with his team.
Two: Boundaries are artificial structures. Reach across them and someone will reach back. During school breaks, he was invited to practice with the Madawaska team, the Howland team, and he would pack a duffel bag for a few days. His rivals taught him moves, guided him, made him a more formidable opponent.
Three: Trappings are only trappings. He had no uniform and didn’t care. He was doing something he loved.
Four: Win or lose, do it with dignity. Each match began with the opponents shaking hands, and ended the same way.
At the state competitions, everyone cheered for the boy with no uniform, a borrowed coach, no legion of teammates with their families, the boy with a lot of heart.
I’m glad to let all you parents and players who were witness to those meets that the boy with a lot of heart is now the man with a lot of heart and he passes on every one of those lessons every day.
Annaliese Jakimides continues to publish poems, essays, and short fiction in a variety of venues, including National Public Radio, where she recently read her essay on This I Believe (archived at www.thisibelieve.org).
