Ponderings

My daughter’s athletic interest is an anomaly. She hails from a long and not so distinguished line of klutzes from both genetic donors. An aberration perhaps, but she has some genuine (if undeveloped) talent and sincere interest. She actually enjoys having balls thrown at her (the distinction between “to” and “at” are lost on this mom) and is proud of the latest bruises. Intrigued with this child of mine, I have tried to encourage and support her athletic endeavors. But we are now at a critical juncture. She is at the crossroads of get better or get out.

As I sit in the stands with the non-klutz parents I realize that my child may have talent but also liability. Who knew that grown ups actually chose to spend time in backyard throwing spheres at each other? And though my daughter was often the pitcher for her team, I was astonished to know that serious preteen players were hiring pitching coaches. Lessons for piano I knew, but no one told me that I was expected to ferret out private lessons for recreation! (Not having known, she may be a little less polished but I’m in a lot less debt. Some ignorance is indeed bliss.)

I’m loathe to offer an escape route for this child of mine that has been given so much. Achievement has come so easily and naturally to her that the concept of hard work is foreign and failure unknown. Yet even for Einstein the discoveries did not come without incredible effort. Talents are like diamonds hiding in seemingling worthless rock, valuable insofar as they are developed. And though my klutzy self cares not about RBI’s (whatever they are), I do care that my firstborn know the value of developing skill. My parental instinct is to push for commitment.

When I watched her slide into home last night, her first slide since a horrific experience last summer (that resulted in months in a cast and surgeries and endless bills that continue), I saw her conquer her fear. At least for one brief moment she had prevailed. I was so proud of her, and happy for her. And for a brief moment I was sure of my resolve to continue championing the cause of perseverance.

On this note of jubilation I slipped out of the stands, playing tag team with her dad, and floated towards the car. As I passed the opposing team’s dug out I realized that the angry adult voice I heard was coming from the dug out. I admit that I looked. It was the coach and he was spitting his anger, shaming the hapless girls that weren’t lucky enough to be out on the field. In tone and words he ripped at their self confidence in the service of making them better athletes. I paused. I wanted him to shut up. I wanted to protect these adolescent souls from his assault. But the girls, seasoned athletes that they were, seemed nonplussed. Apparently in this strange world of flying balls such is the order of the day.

And again I wondered… get better? or get out? I do not know. I know only that it is a world foreign to me and that I will follow my daughter into it as far as she goes and back out again as she chooses.