Today is the first day of
cross-country practice for my 9th grader. School starts in a month, but this is my
oldest child’s first high school activity.
It was my first time dropping him off at the high school for anything as
a student there. He grumbled because
they start at 7AM. He tried to talk his
way out of it. I pushed him forward, out
of the nest.
He and I went into the building and
turned in the requisite paperwork so he could get his “ticket to play” (a
doctor’s permission stating him fit and able).
You can’t play high school sports without it. After turning it in, we left the building and
began walking toward the track.
The building is on lower ground than
the track/football field. With the
bleachers and raised ground, you can’t actually see the field as you
approach. You just hear it. We heard the sound of young men grunting and
roaring; young men set to prove their toughness, their manliness. Without seeing them, I knew. Football players.
It
reminded me of the movie Divergent. You
see the teens of the different factions, Amity, Abnegation, Erudite, and
Candor, walking around in peace and calm. Then there’s the Dauntless
faction. They are the ones you hear
before you see. They yell, they run,
they climb, they laugh, they hoot and howl.
Everyone gets out of their way. In high school, the football players are
the Dauntless.
I
was a high school football player. It’s
not because I truly was without fear, truly undaunted. I was scared of many things. That’s why I tried out for the hardest of
sports. I figured if I could make it
through two-a-day football workouts, I could handle any other challenges that
arose. Before I tried to earn playing
time, I just tried to survive practice.
Inside me, I carried that threat to my sense of self all through high
school. Even when not on the football
field, I was trying to prove I was man enough.
For me, it was that way all of the time.
This
morning as I walked through the parking lot with my 9th grader, “ticket
to play” in hand, and as I listened to the football players grunt, I thanked
God my son is not playing football. If
he were playing, I’d thank God for that too, but I am glad he won’t carry the
pressures in the way I carried them. He
has his own and they might be much harder than mine were. But I hope he doesn’t feel constant pressure
to show he’s man enough, tough enough.
As
we walked I thought about a Brian Adams song, “The Summer of ’69.” One line in the song is “they were the best
days of my life.” My experience is
completely different than Adams’. I
appreciate the life I lived in high school.
I wouldn’t change much. I was
happy. But my high school years certainly
weren’t best days of my life. For me, I
am convinced those days are ahead. I
enjoy parenting, and someday, I plan on loving retirement.
As
we neared the place where Igor, my son, would join up with his cross country teammates,
I saw the football players. They were in
line, each waiting his turn to run the 40-yard dash for time. What a contrast, football players and cross
country runners. The cross country crowd
is mellow, chill. The football players
are posturing, muscles pressed out as much as possible, manly strutting over
the top. The cross country coaches are
laid back. The football coaches ready to
yell and then yell some more.
As
soon as Igor could clearly see where he was going he turned to me and said, “OK,
I’ll see you.” No message could be
clearer. Dad, this is as far as you go. I
am grateful you got me this far, but I’ll take it from here. Please leave NOW. So often, he and I struggle to
communicate. God, thank you. This time it was clear. “Alright,” I said. OK,
son. I am really proud of you. Now go run.
