Football has been on my mind a lot lately because this weekend marks the return of a “normal” football season for my boys, after a very very long break.
So, Kenny Chesney's "Boys of Fall" is the soundtrack to my life these days.
When I was in high school, sitting in the football stadium stands playing "Carry On My Wayward Son" on my trombone with the rest of the high school marching band (I was SUPER cool), I remember thinking that football was violent and never ever pictured myself being a football parent. In fact, when my oldest son was 6 years old and started asking about playing football, my initial and frequent response was "absolutely not!!" I recall thinking that it was too rough, too unnecessary and far too much of a commitment from me and for him. I was a solid "no."
But, he was determined to play and one year later, after I had done lots of research and talked to some of the local youth football coaches, I decided to let him try it. After all, in that year since I had said no to football, I had witnessed some pretty serious injuries in his little league baseball division. I convinced myself that on some level football might be safer since my child would be fully padded and always in a helmet with a face shield. Plus, I am also firmly against children specializing in just one sport at this young age and much of the research backs my stance.
I sat, in horror, through those first few weeks of football practice as children ran laps and worked out, sometimes until they puked because they had eaten too close to practice, often through tears and while coaches yelled at them. "What the hell did I sign my son up for?"
My son asked me if he could quit football after just two weeks. While a big part of me wanted to take his little hand and march him back to my car, leaving his stinky football equipment on the field, a voice inside me told me that I couldn't let him quit. He needed to stick it out and see what a game was like before he walked away. I didn't want him to have any regrets and I was convinced that he would be completely done with football after one game. So, he continued on and was one of the children selected to dress (but probably not play) for the first varsity game - a home game.
That first game day was almost magical. The sun was bright and hot, a perfect New England September day. The music pumped throughout the stadium and my son got to hear his name announced over the loud speaker at his high school's football stadium as he ran through streamers held by cheerleaders. Although I cannot recall for sure, I am fairly certain that I cried. After all, I cry a lot - especially when I am proud of my children. I was proud of him and his teammates. They had made a commitment to each other and to themselves. Even though he didn't play much that game, he was hooked and he never ever asked to quit football again.
That season, our family's inaugural football season, was perfect. My son, my quiet, insecure and timid son was changing before my eyes. He was becoming more confident, more assertive and more hopeful. I suddenly understood what sculptors like Michelangelo must have felt as they began to see their works of art being carved from blocks of marble. My son was being chiseled into an amazing version of himself, a version I had always known was inside and I had football to thank for the transformation.
Our second season of football was a bit different and after two games my son cried again - not because he didn't like the game but because he felt "invisible" "not good enough." We talked about it as a family and he decided that the best thing to do would be to talk to the coach and find out how he could get better, how he could get more playing time. I watched him have that brief but terrifying conversation and I teared up again (see? I cry. A lot). I knew many adults, including myself, who were too afraid to approach an authority figure and ask for such feedback. But, he did it and things began to change. He ended the season a starting varsity player and truly became him that season. I saw football's lasting impact on his school work, his friendships and in his other sports.
So, when our youngest son became old enough to sign up for football, I didn't hesitate. He knew what he was signing up for - he had just watched his brother play two full seasons. Of course, the transition into the practices and conditioning was difficult for him but he never asked to quit. Just three plays into his very first football game, he scored a touchdown on a quarterback sneak play. I suspect that moment will be one of the moments that sticks in the photo album of his childhood in his mind - one of those moments he'll tell his own children about someday. He beamed coming off the field and couldn't wait to talk to his big brother about it. It should come as no surprise that I cried then too 🙂
But, in the back of my mind, I hear a voice of doubt. "What if they get hurt?" "What about a concussion?" "Is it too much for them at such a young age?" Then I watch shows like Last Chance U and Friday Night Tykes and have moments of disgust as I watch those coaches swearing at and belittling other football players. Is this what my children have to look forward to? Each season I watch as new children join our football teams and I see the same sheer panic overcome their parents' faces as their child takes their first tackle or stays on the ground longer than the other children and they feel the "Oh my God! He's hurt?!" feeling that sends a parent's heart into the pit of your stomach.
If I'm being honest, I have that same level of panic every time I watch my boys ride off on their bikes or walk along a busy street or rough house on a playground or do almost any of the crazy things boys their age do. I have that same fear when I drop them off at school and have to push back the worry that something bad could happen there too. I feel the same dread when we are in a large public gathering. What if??
But, then I arrive at game day and Kenny's words ring in my head and I remember that I cannot let fear dictate or direct my life. When people ask me "Why football?" my reply is always the same. I cannot wrap my children in a bubble (even though I really wish Amazon Prime would sell one). My children love the game of football. They love creating these memories with their friends. They beam with pride when their lap pace increases, they score a touchdown, have a great block on the line or make a key tackle. Football has helped my children gain confidence and identify their limits in ways other sports have not. It has helped them build character and forge lifelong friendships. It has created change in them that could not have been done with just my parenting alone. It unifies my family in the fall and allows us a shared experience. More importantly though, football is just one piece of our life. In addition to being football players, my boys are baseball players, musicians, basketball players, compassionate friends, academically bright, insightful, creative, funny and great with animals.
At this point in my children's lives, the positive benefits of youth football outweigh the risk of negatives. They even outweigh the nasty, smelly football pads that stink up my car after practices and games. And no matter what time of year it is or how far my boys go with football, on some level they will always be Boys of Fall and I will always be a Mom of Fall.
I’ve been here before.
This space between elementary school and middle school is familiar to me for I have walked this road before with my oldest son. This road is a place where childhood really starts to feel finite and the pull of adolescence finds its way into our lives. It’s a short road but one that feels endless at times and is often uncomfortable and scary.
I’ve been here before.
I’m no stranger to closed doors. Once again these closed doors fill the hallways of my home, a home that used to be filled with the sounds of two little boys giggling and their little feet pitter-pattering everywhere. Sometimes I pause outside these closed doors, hoping to hear some piece of the little boy version that once existed. Sometimes I hear it — the childish giggle. But mostly, I hear a deep voice I still haven’t quite gotten used to hearing.
I’ve been here before.
I know the importance of noticing my tone of voice and being mindful of how I say something.
Asking a simple question like “How was your day?” now takes a certain kind of finessing as hormones are starting to surge and just a wrong look can result in eye-rolling and dramatic sighs.
I’ve been here before.
The sting of not being the most important people in his life is familiar as invitations from his friends now take precedence for him and are preferred over family dinners at restaurants, family trips to the beach, or lazy family days at home. I know eventually the pendulum swings back the other way, and he will start again to enjoy time with the family. This time is only temporary.
I’ve been here before.
My nights and weekends are no longer my own as I now must leave space for my tween to have his own plans. My car has once again become a personal Lyft, available at a moment’s notice to transport tweens to their last-minute, poorly planned activities.
I’ve been here before.
I know to take a deep breath before entering his room as it usually is a total science experiment in there. Frequent conversations about why showering is important and why cereal bowls can’t be left on bureaus now fill my days. I know the time is coming where he will care about the state of his room but that time is not now.
I’ve been here before . . . but not quite like this.
I used to think that my final time down this road from childhood to adolescence would be exciting. After all, I know what’s on the other side of this road, and it’s quite amazing.
I assumed that once I reached this road with my youngest son, I would be relieved to almost be on the other side.
I was wrong.
Although it’s an exhausting, smelly, challenging road, there is beauty on this road, especially when you have an awareness that it is the last time you will help a child transition from the wonder and innocence of childhood to the independence and difficulties of adolescence.
This is a truly special process.
There is something really wonderful that happens when my tween son lays next to me on the couch while watching TV and lets me play with his hair, just like he used to when he was a toddler watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.
In moments like this, there is a synchrony between the little boy he once was and the young man he is becoming.
There are wonder and amazement in watching my little boy become a young man, one with his own political views, interests, and thoughts of the world—a young man I find myself admiring more deeply than I ever thought I could.
There is something truly heartwarming to be able to bear witness to the transition taking place right before my eyes.
I’ve been here before . . . but this time I’m going to enjoy it and revel in its beauty for it will be gone for good all too soon.
This piece was originally published 08/17/20 on Her View From Home.
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