Watching my boys (which includes Guy) as they participate in their various activities is one of the joys of my life. The sidelines are a great place for me to be: I can see what's going on, gauge my own level of participation to my a) understanding of the event, and b) to my desire to be noticed or not. I can choose whether to cheer out loud, or just within myself, and oftentimes I do both at the same event. It matters little whether the event is sports- or school-related, team or individual; I like to see my boys doing what they do, and the associated reactions and interactions.
There are times, however, when watching brings back memories that I hope my children never have. Yesterday, at Drew's soccer game, I was suddenly struck with the realization of why I didn't do team sports. Sure, there are the "reasons" that I was given when I would ask about playing softball, but in all honesty, when I was told the schedule didn't fit the family's schedule, or Mom was 'against' team sports, I was secretly relieved.
You see, I was on a kickball team when I was a kid, and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. Oh, I tried to love it! I packed my shorts, shirt and sneakers in my bag every week for practice, and I walked with the team from our school over to the public school where we would practice, and I would run the laps for warm-up, but inside, I was terrified. First of all, my bag for my gear was a plastic shopping bag from Izard's department store--a very cool bag, to be sure, as it was covered with this patchwork of 'newspaper' clippings and ads, and it was in the days when it was pretty unusual to have a plastic shopping bag, but it was really not the best device for carrying gym clothes. It didn't take long for the bag, my shoes and my kickball clothes to permanently develop the scent of Frito's. No one ever said a thing, so I have no idea if anyone ever even noticed, but I sure did.
Truly, that was the least of my worries. I was a dancer. A dancer dances. A dancer does not stand behind home base in a "ready position" and catch a kickball, all the while saying, "Come on, come on, we can do this." And a dancer certainly doesn't stand at first base and get hit in the stomach and chest by a line drive kick, and actually hold on to the ball! (The latter fact one that our coach picked up on rather quickly.) Oddly enough, a dancer can quite easily manage to kick the ball backwards, on the floor, toward the opposing team's catcher. Pretty consistently, too, I might add. I worried that our uniform shirts, which came from the Champion outlet, were not as nifty as the other teams' shirts, and that my shorts, which came from the irregular bin in the same outlet (the tag was missing), might not match everyone else's--or worse, were backwards (remember, no tag!) and would not stay up where they were supposed to. And we had to wear tube socks. I have never been a fan of the tube sock, and I think that is probably also related to kickball.
Anyway, back to Drew's game. As I watched, I could see how they have improved over the course of the season. They were communicating with each other quite a bit--telling each other to cover this side, take it to the corner, get away from the center--and passing to each other in the mid-field. Just as I was thinking that they were showing some nice teamwork, one of the boys clearly started to hog the ball. And that's when it hit me. Some kids are just going to take the spotlight, no matter what. This kid reminds me, in so very many ways, of one of the players on my kickball team. She was also in my class. I think she might have been the pitcher--and she was, still is, in some ways, my tormentor.
She was bigger than me, and she was meaner than me, and it turns out, when I talk to our classmates, she left everyone with memories somewhere between uncomfortable and downright painful. She took my friends from time to time, but really took my self-image. Before I started dancing in second grade, I was a chubby little thing ("little"--HA! I was not little at all. As tall as most of the boys...), but for years--until 5th grade? 6th?--she would taunt me about being fat. I wore hand-me-downs (except for what I got at Champion), and I heard about that all the time. I was from a family of 6 kids, and so she told me I must be poor, and that's why we lived in the country. And when I didn't kick the home run I was so obviously big enough to kick, I never lived it down.
I remember standing at the door, waiting for the bus, and telling Mom I never wanted to go to school again. That this girl was making me miserable, and that she was probably right about all the things she'd said about me. Mom's response was, "She's just jealous." (Her standard response, along with, "If you miss the bus, you're walking to school.") When I asked what she could possibly be jealous of (remember: fat, clumsy, friendless, poor, and therefore stupid), she simply repeated herself. Oddly, she did not tell me none of it was true. I went to school. I survived. I found a friend or two who would not be swayed--or would no longer be swayed--and I started to write poetry and a book. Boys started to think I was funny and fun to be around, but since we'd spent every day together from the time we were in first grade, they didn't "like" me, so even though the actual comments stopped, in my head, I still heard them all.
In 7th and 8th grades, I began to have some confidence in my intelligence, mostly due to my writing style, and because I had both boys and girls as friends, I also began to feel less alone (although not necessarily less lonely--I still struggle with that at times) and less concerned about Champion shirts, since I only wore them for gym class anyway. But it took years for me to understand that I was anywhere near healthy. I clearly remember the day in high school, walking to the library from school, and having to walk past her house in town to get there, when I realized that all that time, she was fatter than me by a long shot. (She also was from a rather large family--at least 6 kids.) Yet, I still struggle with my self-image.
Not all ball hogs are like that. Some hog the ball because they don't know any better, and some just look like they are hogging it, but in reality, everyone is giving it to them; probably because they have a real talent or knack. Some sports require one or two members of the team to handle the ball more than anyone else, and in those cases, there may be either showboating or a graceful generosity that sets a player apart. I have trouble watching team sports when true teamwork is not apparent. I get uncomfortable, solely due to my own experiences. Myopic, I know, since it was one team, a very long time ago, but it was an experience that stunted a part of me, I now understand.
In the soccer game of life, I am one of the ball boys, but only if it's my turn. I have little desire to be in the middle of the field. I want to see what's going on, help out where I can, but hide my insecurities, my inabilities, my fears about belonging and fitting in. Inside, I am both strong and fragile, and not always wise enough to protect myself. Seeing my boys with their respective teammates fills me with hope that their experiences are better than mine; that they are being built up, rather than torn apart. And that through their experience, there will be strength of mind, body and spirit.
And I hope they know that as I watch them from the sidelines, my sometimes silence is due to my respect and admiration for who they are, what they have accomplished, and where they are headed.
Go Team Tanguay!
No comments:
Post a Comment