the roar--an element

My comments at the recent CHHS Football Banquet.....

Once upon a time, Coach Gay mentioned a program that he called Reading with the LIONS. The aim of the program, in which Junior and Senior players give up their lunches or study halls to read to elementary students on game day, was intended to help demonstrate to the players that they are role models to their young fans, even when they are not on the field. Additionally, in introducing themselves, posing and answering questions, and generally being the center of attention in the classroom, they would hone their public speaking skills.

I volunteered to organize this program for Coach Gay mostly because I knew teachers in the District, and he did not. What I saw and heard amazed and impressed me more than I expected.

The teachers were so accommodating and grateful for the player visits, and for seeing their former students so grown up. The elementary students were thrilled to have a change of pace. This much I expected. What blew me away were the football players…

They transformed from a nervous gang of semi-coerced kids, asking for books with “lots of pictures” or “only 3 words,” to an eager team who also played in 5^th grade gym class and sounded out words like “philanthropic”—cold.

As if that wasn’t enough, I received emails from teachers and parents who were impressed at the transformation in their kids: reluctant readers were now asking for books; math-shy kids were looking for LION stats in Saturday’s paper; even kids who were planning their weekly wardrobe so they could wear blue and white or a football jersey on Friday. The nurse said a student told her the worst thing about going home sick was missing the LION Reader. A high school teacher observed a delighted elementary student pointing out that week’s reader, and the huge smiles on all three faces: Player, Mom and Child.

Making an impact is something that more often happens on a smaller scale than we realize. I read in a picture book once that meteorites that make big craters are sometimes just tiny rocks, no bigger than a fist. The LION Readers have been a meteorite. Their impact truly did go beyond any classroom. When I met our Superintendant, Dr. Reeder, he said two things to me that I’ll never forget. He said, “Oh! You’re the LION Reader Lady!” And then he said, more seriously, “Their visits to Eisenhower and Hoover have been key in how well the team is playing. It gets their minds off the game a little so they can focus when they get to the field.”

Parents, thank you for raising boys willing to give of themselves, even when it seems to be a small thing: those small things are the BIG things. And thank you for your willingness to pitch in when I needed drivers and chaperones. Juniors and Seniors, thank you for opening up to your fans, and answering questions ranging from “What’s your favorite dinner?” to “What’s your favorite play?” And for being such good company in our travels. Freshmen and Sophomores, your day will come—I hope you’re looking forward to it.

Coach Gay, thank you for setting Reading with the LIONS in motion. The initiative, in every way, was a success. You said to me once that it is exciting to catch glimpses of the men these players will become. Through Reading with the LIONS, the classroom teachers and I were blessed with a preview of the teachers, uncles, fathers, coaches, these Camp Hill LIONS will one day become.

reading, writing and running around

Sometimes we know the impact we have on another person, and sometimes we don't. Frequently, we hope that we might have an impact, or that we might even be remembered.

I am blessed to be able to facilitate a reading program at school wherein the Junior and Senior football players visit elementary classrooms to read, answer questions, and generally visit with the younger students. There are many intentions of the program, ranging from public speaking experience and team building, to mentoring and volunteerism. As I watch these huge guys sit in rocking chairs and on stools to read rhyming stories and other picture books, I am impressed and amazed at their natural air with the kids. Some reluctant readers have been the best presenters--they practice reading their stories, and even practice their reactions to the pictures or the words. All the players remember the basics of making eye contact and projecting, some of which they learned from the very teachers whose classrooms they are now visiting.

But what I didn't quite expect is the wondrous reaction of the youngsters. Their eyes get wide when they see the size of the boys walking in the door, and their excitement sometimes keeps them from sitting still and waiting their turn to ask questions. At first, the players and I were amused by the questions, ranging from "What's your favorite color?" to "How heavy are the pads you have to wear?" Now, we know what to expect, to a certain extent--first and second graders will probably ask about colors, food, and "Do you know my brother/sister/neighbor/babysitter?" while third through fifth graders start to ask about scoring, positions, and "Do you know my brother/sister/neighbor/babysitter?" What I really didn't expect is how dramatically the kids have all changed.

The big kids are clearly more sure of themselves with kids than they were at the beginning, or at least more comfortable in a classroom setting. They are leading more, anticipating some of the questions and answering in a way that makes the younger kids feel important in asking, and even analyzing the experience afterwards--though I'm not positive they realize that's what they are doing. The little kids are, interestingly, becoming more awestruck each week. I had thought that by the end of the season, they would feel like the visits would be old hat, just one more thing to expect each week, like art, library and gym; but the opposite has happened.

Usually, we head out during study halls and lunch on Friday afternoon; the players in their jerseys, and thinking about the game that night. This week, however, there is no school on game day, so the boys have been reading all week. In and out of the schools, I've heard many comments about the program, mostly involving an excited kid talking about the football player who visited his or her classroom. Today, though, I had to work, and two other football moms accompanied our two readers to their classrooms. And that's how I came to realize just how deep this whole thing goes.

In one classroom, the book was about a little old lady who decides she is not too old to play in the football game, so she gets herself to the field, gets suited up, and plays. After the story was over, as is typical, the players ask the class if they have any questions, about the story or anything else. A little girl, an immigrant from Egypt, asked what a football is. After some difficulty in understanding the question, and some assistance in answering in terms she could understand, he managed to help her learn not only what a football is, but what a "granny" is, too. The little girl proceeded to ask the reader to sign her bookmark. I was moved to tears when I heard.

And that's not all: the school nurse had to send a boy home sick yesterday. As he left, she told us he said, "I have to go home sick, and we're having a famous football player come read to us." A high school teacher emailed me one day to relate what she saw after a reading day: a little girl being picked up from school saw her reader walking down the sidewalk and ran up to him to give him a hug and meet her mommy--three huge grins! And impromptu autograph session after reading one day--kids asking their teacher if they can get their shirts signed, and having to be required to stick to paper products! At the Homecoming pep rally at the elementary school, nearly all the kids calling players by name to come sit by them. The Superintendent stopping in and saying that he thinks the team's good season could really be attributed in part to the boys' reading: "focusing on what's important before every game." Teachers telling me that the kids have been asking for an autograph session with the team, and asking first thing Monday morning to see the pictures they know I have sent over the weekend. The class that wrote thank you notes to their reader, bringing the lesson full circle.

When I first heard Coach talk about this reading program, it brought tears to my eyes and tugged at my heart. Everything he said about it was something I could get behind, something I truly believed in. I volunteered to help with it since he works in another District, and, being new to the team, didn't have the contacts to make it fly. I struggled with it a bit at the beginning, but now I know for sure that I will miss it terribly when the games, and therefore the reading days, are over. The teachers and the winter sports teams are interested in keeping it going, and I'll be happy to pass the torch, although I do plan on working with the football team again next year.

Because I once was taller than all the team, I will always see them as the boys they were in addition to the men they are becoming, but I see something else now, too. There is, in the physical act of looking up to see someone, a natural admiration when there is an age difference. Now, when I look up into the faces of these players, these gentle giants, these tough guys, I see the heroes they are to a few hundred kids who want to follow in their footsteps--in the classroom, on the field, and in life.

it all comes back

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!

heartaches

Friday nights, I go to the field to watch our football team. Every week, I arrive with great anticipation for a joyous victory. The boys have been playing hard, and have tremendous spunk; yet points have been elusive. It's been rough, and each game ends with waves of emotion flowing from the team to the fans and back again. The ripples of emotion last all week; I feel them at home and in the hallways at school.

On Friday afternoons, I take some of the football players to read at our elementary schools. My heart swells with pride as I watch these soon-to-be men of the world sitting in rocking chairs, on stools, in easy chairs or on the floor with 20 or so awestruck children. The introductions are simple--"My name is so-and-so, and I play fullback." Or cornerback. Center. Wide receiver. Quarterback. Tackle. No matter what position they mention, I know they have others they play as well on our small team. The children ooh and aah, and then listen intently to the story. Afterwards, I am always impressed at how well the players answer questions from their little fans. What's your favorite color? Who's your favorite team? Do you like hockey? Do you know my neighbor? Each question is answered honestly, and without batting an eye--even when the question is silly. "Isn't the quarterback the guy who runs backwards and then throws the ball to the 'retreiver'?" My heart and my spirit soar at the simplicity, the easy manner in which these two age groups are able to banter. We leave with a heartfelt "Thank you" in both directions, and instructions to "Cheer for me when you go to the game!" or "Look for my number on the field!" The teachers tell me that on Mondays, the kids come in talking about the game, seeing their reader play, hearing his name and number announced, or seeing his stats in the paper. The connection to the community makes my heart sing.

As a result, I now know more of the players on the field. I used to know their names; maybe recognize their faces. But now, I've heard a little about their hopes, their wishes, their views on football, school, classes. I've spoken with them about colleges, majors, what they like for lunch. When I see them on the field, my heart opens up; flowering at the joy I know they feel because they play, because they are a team.

As a result of knowing more of the players, my heart jumps at the start of every play, every whistle, every huddle and time out. I understand a little more of the game than I did, and I still have so many questions, but I know enough to have my heart break a little each time a pass is incomplete, or deflected. My heart stops with each tackle, particularly when we can't clearly see who has possession of the ball. Cramps, calls for water, and injuries cause my heart to squeeze tightly into a little ball, so tight I can hardly breathe; and when I saw two players from the sideline go to an injured player on the field to help him off, half my heart cried with concern for the injured, while the other half cried with joy at the tenderness of his friends and teammates.

Every game is a roller coaster of emotion, not just for me, but for all the parents, the families, the fans. I know the players feel it, too, but I also know that they are so keenly focused on the action, and executing as they've been taught, that their energy plays with their emotion as well. I hope, with all my heart, that the players know just how emotionally invested we, as parents and fans, truly are. I hope they can understand that we want to share in their feelings, we want to hear their feedback about the game, too. More than anything, I know that my perspective is going to be different than my player/son's, and I just want to share in his joys, his pains and sorrows, his laughter and his stories from the game, and from his life.

With each goal the opposing team scores, my heart sinks to depths I didn't even know I had within me. Likewise, with each point our team scores, my heart soars to the top of the goalposts, and I feel as though I could fly. At the end of every game, I feel as though I've been wrung out, twisted, shaken, torn apart and put back together again. All that's missing from the workout I've had is the sweat. After each game, the parents go to the edge of the track to wait for the team to come back from their post-game huddle. There is a silence borne, I'm sure, of that mutual emotional exhaustion we all feel, but are loathe to talk about for fear of seeming too sentimental, invested, dramatic, or being judged as one who is living vicariously through our sons.

As they walk towards us on the sidelines, there is always applause, cheering, and, most importantly, a mass of open arms. The first time, my son told me he was too sweaty to hug me. My heart broke clean in half--and fell right out of my chest when I saw another player's mom walk right up to my son and hug him. A former me would have kept this inside, and gone home with half her heart lying in pieces on the field. This incarnation of me turned him right around and hugged him, hard. He smelled terrible, and really was far sweatier even than he looked, but nothing else on God's green earth could possibly have repaired my heart.

I hope, with all my heart, that those boys, those soon-to-be men of the world, my own son especially, understand how much they touch my heart. I hope they understand that when I say they will be forever in my heart, I mean it. Truly I do.