Dear Coach,
My heart hurts for you. That's all I can say right now. With every interception, every fumble, every incomplete pass, my heart hurts and my stomach turns. I know it's silly. I know there are people out there without jobs, without homes, people who struggle to put food on the table, and my heart hurts from watching a football game. Silly. It's only a game, they say. But it's not. It's more than a game.
It's where we live and how often we move. It's who our kids are friends with and where we put down roots. It's where we go to church and who our kids want to be when they grow up. It's more than a game.
It's more than a job. It's potty-training a toddler in the field house because that's where we spend so much time. It's riding bikes around the track while Daddy lines the field for the game. Family time, we call it. It's falling asleep at night with HUDL in my ear and arranging our summer vacation around the GHSA dead week. It's hours and hours and hours of film, white board, chalk talk, and pep talk. It's more hours than most people could possibly imagine and it hurts to lose. The stands fill up, fans cheer, and then, win or lose, they go home to enjoy their weekend. Coaches take it all home with them, into the weekend, and back to the gridiron on Monday with a whole new resolve.
I wish I knew what to say to you when I see you on Saturday morning. I wish I had magic words that made the knot in your stomach go away, but there's not much this sideline cheerleader can say and I know that all too well by now. But I know you, and I know you'll be back at it tomorrow, planning, scheming, rearranging, and hatching out new plans for Monday. I swell with pride when I watch you coach those boys who are like sons to you. I burst a little more when I see you off the field with them, talking to them about their grades in school, their attitudes with their parents, their girlfriends-- stuff you don't get paid to do. But none of that matters on Friday night and some folks will judge you by the score on the scoreboard. Hopefully one day they will see what I see.
No, it isn't just a game, and it isn't an easy job. But sometimes I think the hardest job is being the one you come home to.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
A Tale of Two Brothers
I can't help but wonder as I'm cleaning bedrooms today, how in the world did I end up with two children, 19 months apart, who are so TOTALLY different from each other? I have a third child, but his exact habits and disposition aren't quite written in stone yet, so I'll hold off on him until he starts school. When that day comes, I'll analyze him like any good mother does, but for now, he's safe.
I started in Tanner's room, because, let's be honest, his is the easier room. Upon entering I see that his bed has already been made, throw pillows placed perfectly at the top: two reds surrounding a white-- ahh, symmetry. His throw rugs, one football, another basketball shaped, are lying on the floor, not crumpled into little balls in the corner (I've seen it done before). His floor is lacking in any strewn around clothing items, because, and I swear this is the truth, he asked me for a clothes basket and that is where he deposits the dirties. In order to get to the clothes basket, I push the door shut just a little and notice that the shoe organizer I bought for him holds all of his shoes, each one with a MATCH!! No dirty cleats on this floor, no lonesome flip-flop, unwearable for lack of a mate. He has a separate drawer for underwear and socks, T-shirts and Under Armors in another, and Sunday clothes (yes, he does have them) hang in the closet. I weep a little as I exit this 8 year old's sanctuary and turn left into . . . TUCKER'S ROOM!!!!!!
Oh, where to start? First, the bed is not made, and not only is it not made it looks like wolves wrestled in it all night. Most beds require only a straightening of the sheet and comforter, fluffing of the pillows, and replacing of the throw ones. Not this bed. The comforter is wrung like a handkerchief in a nervous man's hand; one pillow is UNDERNEATH the bed, and the throw pillows didn't even fall close to the edge of the bed frame. It's as if he practiced quarterbacking at midnight using his satin accessories. As far as shoes go, there isn't even a hanging shoe compartment, and we usually begin each day with a "search for Zigs." Socks live for days underneath the bed, crumpled in corners, and yes, underneath the pillow until I go hunting for them after a 7 sock laundry load. The clothing situation is no better: football practice starts early at our house as we search for girdles, long socks, and the perfect practice shirt. This room is painfully free of any organization, no sock drawer, no folded t-shirts, no Easy Button.
Seriously, though. It isn't as if I took each one aside as toddlers and instructed them separately on how I like things done. They were with me ALL THE TIME, how did one pick up on my habits and the other follow the dad who was away coaching much of the time. (No offense, Daddy, but you DO NOT make your bed, and I have been known to pick up clothing from the floor. Just Sayin'). Does that mean that cleanliness and organization is genetic, that nothing I do will make a difference in what kind of husband each one becomes? Was all that motherly instruction for naught? Could I have just as easily taken them to the mall and dragged them from store to food court and back? Would that have been just as fruitful?
But the most important question comes now: Should I just throw caution to the wind and let Tate become whatever he is genetically determined to become? Are there more important things to teach a 2 year old than to throw away his trash? Or pick up his puzzle pieces? Of course there are. How to be kind to each other, how to say "please" and "thank you," how to respect others and especially folks older than them. They open doors, say excuse me, pray each night before bed, and never forget to tell me that they love me. Maybe their differences aren't so big after all. Maybe the ways in which they are alike are waaay more important than the ways in which they differ. Maybe they were listening to me after all. . .
I started in Tanner's room, because, let's be honest, his is the easier room. Upon entering I see that his bed has already been made, throw pillows placed perfectly at the top: two reds surrounding a white-- ahh, symmetry. His throw rugs, one football, another basketball shaped, are lying on the floor, not crumpled into little balls in the corner (I've seen it done before). His floor is lacking in any strewn around clothing items, because, and I swear this is the truth, he asked me for a clothes basket and that is where he deposits the dirties. In order to get to the clothes basket, I push the door shut just a little and notice that the shoe organizer I bought for him holds all of his shoes, each one with a MATCH!! No dirty cleats on this floor, no lonesome flip-flop, unwearable for lack of a mate. He has a separate drawer for underwear and socks, T-shirts and Under Armors in another, and Sunday clothes (yes, he does have them) hang in the closet. I weep a little as I exit this 8 year old's sanctuary and turn left into . . . TUCKER'S ROOM!!!!!!
Oh, where to start? First, the bed is not made, and not only is it not made it looks like wolves wrestled in it all night. Most beds require only a straightening of the sheet and comforter, fluffing of the pillows, and replacing of the throw ones. Not this bed. The comforter is wrung like a handkerchief in a nervous man's hand; one pillow is UNDERNEATH the bed, and the throw pillows didn't even fall close to the edge of the bed frame. It's as if he practiced quarterbacking at midnight using his satin accessories. As far as shoes go, there isn't even a hanging shoe compartment, and we usually begin each day with a "search for Zigs." Socks live for days underneath the bed, crumpled in corners, and yes, underneath the pillow until I go hunting for them after a 7 sock laundry load. The clothing situation is no better: football practice starts early at our house as we search for girdles, long socks, and the perfect practice shirt. This room is painfully free of any organization, no sock drawer, no folded t-shirts, no Easy Button.
Seriously, though. It isn't as if I took each one aside as toddlers and instructed them separately on how I like things done. They were with me ALL THE TIME, how did one pick up on my habits and the other follow the dad who was away coaching much of the time. (No offense, Daddy, but you DO NOT make your bed, and I have been known to pick up clothing from the floor. Just Sayin'). Does that mean that cleanliness and organization is genetic, that nothing I do will make a difference in what kind of husband each one becomes? Was all that motherly instruction for naught? Could I have just as easily taken them to the mall and dragged them from store to food court and back? Would that have been just as fruitful?
But the most important question comes now: Should I just throw caution to the wind and let Tate become whatever he is genetically determined to become? Are there more important things to teach a 2 year old than to throw away his trash? Or pick up his puzzle pieces? Of course there are. How to be kind to each other, how to say "please" and "thank you," how to respect others and especially folks older than them. They open doors, say excuse me, pray each night before bed, and never forget to tell me that they love me. Maybe their differences aren't so big after all. Maybe the ways in which they are alike are waaay more important than the ways in which they differ. Maybe they were listening to me after all. . .
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