Braving Boys

Donaldson / #91

It turns out that Joey doesn’t much love football. He doesn’t hate it, but it’s become pretty clear that if he had his choice, he’d be on a boat — with his dad, a fishing pole, and a cast net. He likes fishing so much that standing for a few hours at the kitchen sink cleaning shrimp qualifies as fun when compared to two-hour practices. It’s actually the practice he doesn’t prefer. Games are better, and we’ve even spotted the guy pretty pumped up after each of his team’s three wins.

The coaches warned us at the beginning of the season that tackle football could very well be the toughest thing our kids have ever endured in their nine years of life. The grueling conditioning, old-school coaching, hot temps, hard hits, and colossal time commitment would build our boys into men, they declared, and sure enough, it’s tough stuff out there on the field.

Ready to block!

It’s not the physical demands that bother Joey, though, and I watched him just last week come from behind 30 teammates while running, pushing himself to first place on the first lap, and second on the second lap.

He’s not lazy. He’s not slacking.

He’s just. not. that. into. it.

Still, he’s going to finish, and I happen to think that’s what makes him most like a man. He’s not complaining (anymore), and he’s fulfilling his commitment — three practices per week, one game per week, and a healthy diet that keeps the big boy a bit below max weight so he can play in each game. Yep, tough stuff.

Joey’s not sure he will ever be a superstar in the world of football. But maybe he will. It’s still early in the season, and he’s only 9, after all. Plenty of time on both accounts for a change of heart. For now, however, I’m just plain proud every time I watch my kid suit up and do his thing. I’m not sure I could do it as well.

Four words for you, Joey.

Boy.
You.
Are.
Amazing.

Don’t ever forget it.

Yes, that's a black-ish eye, but not from football, just rough play.

Let me preface this post by telling you that my 9-year-old kid has not yet been fully uniformed and padded and protected and knocked around on the football field, and, yes, of course, I am scared to death that he will soon be jolted around to the point of tears and serious injury, but so far, he’s just been conditioning his big-boy body for a season of tackle football.

By conditioning, I mean he’s been running, jumping, racing, weaving, bear crawling, crab crawling, sitting up, pushing up, attacking dummies, and then doing it all over again. And again. Then one more time. For two hours. Sometimes more.

Almost every day, Joey is soaked in sweat and fatigued to the point that he can’t fall asleep. This is tough stuff — the hardest he’s ever had it in life. And here’s what I have to say about it all:

So far, I love tackle football.

It’s not the hours on end I’m sitting on a field overrun with ants that nibble constantly on my ankles. It’s the not the 4PM dinners we’re eating to prep for 6PM practice, or the rushed night-time routines when we return home at, oh, 8:30 or 9PM. It’s not my messy vehicle, the dirty clothing, the relentless reminders that Joey must lose 2 pounds if he wants to play in the first game.

Nope.

None of that makes me terribly happy.

It’s the way Joey works on that field that fills me with joy. He might complain at home about this sport that he chose (the first one he’s ever picked all by himself!), but as soon he as steps those cleats into the dirt and grass with 35 other boys, he becomes a man. No whining, no slacking, no eye contact with mom and dad. The kid just digs deep, and he works. And when he comes home, after he takes his long, hot shower, he has a certain bounce in his step. It’s not like he’s announcing that he’s enjoying himself, but I see it. And it’s something pretty special.

I keep telling Joey how proud I am of what he’s doing, and I’m guessing he’s going to get sick of hearing it. Like, soon. So I think I’ll shut up, watch from the sidelines, and simply marvel at what football can do for my child.

Monday starts conditioning with gear — that means pads and helmets, mouth guards, chin guards, everything. Maybe then my tune will change, and I won’t be so thrilled with what football can do for my guy (think: bumps, bruises, and brain boo-boos).

For now, though, one week into our new team sport adventure, I am encouraged, inspired, in awe of the baby who rarely participated at playgroups, the toddler who kicked and screamed at gymnastics class, the boy who refused team sports until last year, when we finally nudged him to try basketball.

Proud.

That’s all.

Just proud.