Braving Boys

Joey, No. 91

He was choked up. I saw him fight back the tears. But when we walked away from his very last tackle football game of the season on Saturday night, Joey told us, like he’s done a thousand times, that he doesn’t really like the sport at all, that he will likely never play again.

Well, maybe if he can play defense only, he’ll consider it, but mostly, he’s done with the game.

That’s fine. I don’t care if Joey plays again or not. What I care about is what he got out of the past three months.

Joey got an education in the fundamentals of football and a lesson in commitment — there were days when he wanted so badly to quit, but he toughed it out, finished, and earned a Pop Warner medal and trophy.

Joey got discipline, criticism, and praise. He got first place almost every time he ran laps with his 30 teammates, and he got to hardly ever come out of the game. He got knocked down, he got $5 from Dad for every game tackle, and he got bumps and bruises. He got the nickname “Big Bird,” he got skilled at football drills, and he got accustomed to playing in sweltering heat, and then, in the finger-numbing cold.

Joey got good at football, he got a passion for watching pro games on TV, throwing the ball in the yard with anyone he could recruit, and trying to tackle me in the grass, the living room, even the aisles of Walmart. He got to experience the thrill of team comraderie, he got to yell and scream in huddles, he got to be team captain.

Joey got a game jersey and wore it to school every Friday, he got dressed up for Halloween as a football player, and then, one week after scoring a bag full of trick-or-treat sweets, he got tears in his eyes when football came to an end.

I saw them — the tears.

And that’s how I know that somewhere deep inside his big body, Joey realizes football was not so bad.

I suspect he knows it was actually pretty fun at times.

He just won’t admit it.

That’s OK.

Because I know.

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.