The action is intense: brother against brother on the soccer pitch that is our playroom. I sit in the comfortable armchair at what would be midfield. I imagine myself to be, Jose Mourinho, coach of Real Madrid. We're about the same business, Jose and I. We're both trying to create the best soccer players with the pieces we have. He has the likes of Renaldo, Ozil, Khadeira, and Cassillas. I have my boys. But regardless of the quality of players that one is working with, success is hard. It doesn't come easy. It requires hard work and commitment. So, I sit, watching my boys play, shouting directions and encouragement. I am moulding my boys into proper footballers. This summer, when I tilted our sports axis toward soccer, I made a commitment to turn my boys into knowledgeable soccer fans and formidable soccer players. I have been pretty successful. (Their soccer prowess is probably due to their athletic skill, but, knowledge of soccer stars worldwide, their frequently wearing of soccer jerseys, and their interest in the game?- all me).
Last weekend was a good one. My boys did well in their games. The family had a good weekend outside of soccer, too. As with so much in life, however, the successes were mingled with failure. Nevertheless, both the successes and failures were characterized by this week's blog's subject, commitment.
My older boy's team won it's game, 6-1. He scored a goal, had three shots on net, and handled the ball really well. As we were driving away from the field, we passed a friend and her kids (who were in their car). We stopped side by side. We rolled down our windows to exchange pleasantries. "We were just discussing ----- [our oldest boy]. He has gotten so good!" our friend said. Similarly, my younger son enjoyed great success in his game. His team lost 6-3, but my son scored all three goals. So dominant was my little man, that whenever he touched the ball, I would holler, "Get the ball, ----, and take it and score." It worked three times. Not bad. Jose Mourinho would be proud. So, our commitment to soccer has resulted in very good soccer players. But commitment can have a dark side.
Take the games that took place today. My boys played well, but I questioned our commitment to soccer. Today was 46 degrees with a steady down-pour. My younger boy played a double-header. During the first game, he scored the first goal for his team, then he switched teams because our opponents did not have enough players. He then scored three goals for their team. A win-win for my boy. But a drenching one. In the second game, he was tired, soaked and freezing, but he still scored. Afterward, my younger son's best friend exclaimed to his father: "---- and I both scored and we're FRIENDS!!!!!" (Six year-old enthusiasm can outshine even the dreariest weather). My older boy's best friend's parents took our eldest boy to his game. He returned home muddier than I've ever seen him. But he played hard and scored, in a losing effort. Playing in weather so dank, so muddy, so wet, so cold takes true commitment (not to mention the commitment of father who stands on the sidelines for two hours in the aforementioned down-pour). So, we demonstrated commitment, but at what cost? My children seem vaguely traumatized. They are no longer, dripping wet, but the look in their eyes is one of dampness. As I write this, my boys are huddled next to me, watching TV in a near-comatose state. We've shown true commitment to soccer, but commitment in freezing rain can shake the resolve of the stoutest.
So, the dark side of commitment can involve one's needing to attend games (and play games) in inclement weather. The dark side of commitment is also evident in the misallocation of commitment. My younger boy is chronically guilty of this. On Wednesday night of this week, he became committed to the idea that he would not take a "no thank-you" bite of the Chantarelle mushrooms that my wife had prepared. So, we compromised my wife sliced the already tiny mushroom in two. He gingerly put the mushroom in his mouth and began to chew with a pained expression on his face. He took a swig of milk to help the mushroom go down his throat. Instead of doing this, however, he made a dramatic, gagging sound, and spit his mushroom (now mixed with a lovely chocolate-milk sauce) all over the table. My wife tried to reason with my son. Wouldn't it be easier, she wondered, if he just ate the mushroom, rather than fussing so? It goes without saying that the answer should be 'yes,' but my son's resolve is like granite. He was committed to not eating the mushroom and, so, he would not; regardless of our urging. To make a long, and particularly frustrating story short, my son finally did eat the half-mushroom piece, but only after many tears, losing multiple G-bucks, and losing the privilege of having us lie down with him at bed-time (in this, we relented). With my usual soft-touch, I sidled up to my son and asked, "now wouldn't it have been so much easier if you had just eaten the mushroom?" I wondered reasonably. He looked at me like I was crazy. It is hard to sway the truly committed.
Commitment can be a force for good. The strides we have made in regards to soccer illustrate this. Our commitment to practicing, watching, and being interested in soccer have made us legitimate players and fans. Our commitment to wearing soccer jerseys has made us look good while doing this. But that same commitment nearly resulted in three cases of hypothermia today from playing and spectating soccer in near-freezing rain. Commitment to any cause can result in trouble. My younger son's commitment to not trying his mushrooms brought him a world of hurt (an evening of frustration, really). Commitment is a double-edged sword. One should be warned before becoming too... committed.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Celebrations
It's pitch black. The tension is thick in the air. Silently, children creep, waiting to attack. Stealthily, I wind through the maze, my gun clutched to my side. I peek around corners trying to spot any of my pint-sized foes. Suddenly, the silence is broken. In a sing-song chant, my son begins his celebration mantra. "Uh-huh, that's right, oh yeah, I rule, that's right,uh-huh." It's my boy. We are playing laser tag, and he has clearly gotten someone out. As I stood there, in the dark labyrinth of the laser tag arena listening to my older son, I began to think about celebrations.
My boys are champion celebrators, particularly my older son. He's had more time to practice. My older boy's celebrations always take the same form: "uh-huh, that's right, oh yeah, I rule, that's right, uh-huh." They are so rote that one might think that they are executed without forethought, but that would be a disservice to my son's celebrating. He has made a key strategic decisions that influence his celebrating. First, and most importantly, my son has recognized that life can be hard with few reasons to celebrate. He has combatted this somber truth by stretching plausible 'reason-to-celebrate' moments. He celebrates to acknowledge obvious feats like scoring in soccer, making a basket in basketball, making a nice catch in football, getting a nice hit in baseball- athletic stuff. Celebrations (polite ones, hopefully) and athletics go hand-in-hand. Before sports, I am not sure what people celebrated. Killing a wooly mammoth, maybe. Or starting a fire. But now we do have sports, and this allows us all sorts of chances to celebrate. Of course, my son is no dummy and he has realized that life wouldn't be as fun if one had to wait all week to celebrate (athletic competitions in third grade are held once weekly, usually on the weekends). So, he has expanded his reason-to-celebrate definition to encompass a wide swath of daily life. "Hey dad," he said to me this morning with a smile, "already taken my shower. No problem." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey dad. Like my Chelsea jersey? I look smooth, don't I?" [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey dad. Look at my plate. I ate all my peas. Clean plate, player" [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey daddy. Guess what I just did? Helped mommy make cookies. She said I'm her sou-chef." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] Or "hey dad. Go check out the play room. It's been cleaned by the CLEANING MASTER." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] All the above proclamations were made with a smiling face and eyes gleaming with pride. True celebrations. I like celebrating too so I can relate to my son. But he has an ability to weave a reason to celebrate out of seeming nothingness. A couple of weeks ago, I heard him during his piano practice. It was not an atypical piano practice, replete with my son's furious protestations of hating piano and my wife's patient (at first, anyway) reminders of the importance of practice. Even as my boy's playing began to sound more and more like the song he was attempting, his manner did not brighten. He seemed near tears, a happy place a long way off. Suddenly, as if the good sounding playing was only just reaching his ears, he was on his feet with a rhythmic twisting of the hips and a hand out-stretched. "Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule, that's right, uh-huh, oh yeah," he triumphantly crowed. Impressive. Celebrations for a piano-practice well-done.
Typically, my younger son's celebrations take a different form. His celebrations are sillier and random. In the middle of soccer game (that he and I are losing to his brother), he might start blowing kisses to an imaginary audience: "to all my ladies," he intones, grinning. Or, we're about to read the bed-time story, and he, inexplicably, starts to shake his booty. "Shake your little-tail feathers," he says, his smiling face nodding to the (pretend) beat.
We just got back from a really beautiful trip to Arizona. There was a lot of amazing hiking there. Curiously enough, my youngest, although always the loudest, in protesting, "I DO NOT WANT TO HIKE" was a champion hiker. On a hike during our last day there, he and I were a good ten minutes ahead of the rest of our extended family. We marched resolutely through the gorgeous terrain. Red rocks marvelously towering above us, we marched on. I noticed that my son was muttering under his breath. I moved closer to listen. "Uh huh, oh yeah, I rule," he whispered, the pride coming off him in waves.
My boys are champion celebrators, particularly my older son. He's had more time to practice. My older boy's celebrations always take the same form: "uh-huh, that's right, oh yeah, I rule, that's right, uh-huh." They are so rote that one might think that they are executed without forethought, but that would be a disservice to my son's celebrating. He has made a key strategic decisions that influence his celebrating. First, and most importantly, my son has recognized that life can be hard with few reasons to celebrate. He has combatted this somber truth by stretching plausible 'reason-to-celebrate' moments. He celebrates to acknowledge obvious feats like scoring in soccer, making a basket in basketball, making a nice catch in football, getting a nice hit in baseball- athletic stuff. Celebrations (polite ones, hopefully) and athletics go hand-in-hand. Before sports, I am not sure what people celebrated. Killing a wooly mammoth, maybe. Or starting a fire. But now we do have sports, and this allows us all sorts of chances to celebrate. Of course, my son is no dummy and he has realized that life wouldn't be as fun if one had to wait all week to celebrate (athletic competitions in third grade are held once weekly, usually on the weekends). So, he has expanded his reason-to-celebrate definition to encompass a wide swath of daily life. "Hey dad," he said to me this morning with a smile, "already taken my shower. No problem." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey dad. Like my Chelsea jersey? I look smooth, don't I?" [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey dad. Look at my plate. I ate all my peas. Clean plate, player" [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey daddy. Guess what I just did? Helped mommy make cookies. She said I'm her sou-chef." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] Or "hey dad. Go check out the play room. It's been cleaned by the CLEANING MASTER." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] All the above proclamations were made with a smiling face and eyes gleaming with pride. True celebrations. I like celebrating too so I can relate to my son. But he has an ability to weave a reason to celebrate out of seeming nothingness. A couple of weeks ago, I heard him during his piano practice. It was not an atypical piano practice, replete with my son's furious protestations of hating piano and my wife's patient (at first, anyway) reminders of the importance of practice. Even as my boy's playing began to sound more and more like the song he was attempting, his manner did not brighten. He seemed near tears, a happy place a long way off. Suddenly, as if the good sounding playing was only just reaching his ears, he was on his feet with a rhythmic twisting of the hips and a hand out-stretched. "Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule, that's right, uh-huh, oh yeah," he triumphantly crowed. Impressive. Celebrations for a piano-practice well-done.
Typically, my younger son's celebrations take a different form. His celebrations are sillier and random. In the middle of soccer game (that he and I are losing to his brother), he might start blowing kisses to an imaginary audience: "to all my ladies," he intones, grinning. Or, we're about to read the bed-time story, and he, inexplicably, starts to shake his booty. "Shake your little-tail feathers," he says, his smiling face nodding to the (pretend) beat.
We just got back from a really beautiful trip to Arizona. There was a lot of amazing hiking there. Curiously enough, my youngest, although always the loudest, in protesting, "I DO NOT WANT TO HIKE" was a champion hiker. On a hike during our last day there, he and I were a good ten minutes ahead of the rest of our extended family. We marched resolutely through the gorgeous terrain. Red rocks marvelously towering above us, we marched on. I noticed that my son was muttering under his breath. I moved closer to listen. "Uh huh, oh yeah, I rule," he whispered, the pride coming off him in waves.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Choices or A Thoughtful Examination by a Thoughtful Person
All this blogging has made me a thoughtful man. In this vein, I decided that I would replay this past Saturday in my mind, evaluating some choices that I made. In this way, I might mold future choices emulating successful ones and avoiding less successful ones.
The first choice was actually presented to me before Saturday, and it was not a terribly difficult one to make. Still, there were issues to consider. A friend of mine, S, invited me and another friend to watch a MLS game (Seattle FC versus Toronto FC). S, who is a sociology professor teaching a course on soccer as a reflection of cultural, political and economic issues, was taking a group of his students to see the game (a nice perk for the students of any soccer-based course). The choice: should I go to the game? A no-brainer, but let's examine the issues anyhow, the most important of which is one of abandonment. Namely, am I mistreating my family by leaving them on a Saturday so I can watch a soccer game? Of course not. So, I chose to accept the kind invitation to the game.
Another choice, of seemingly little importance, turned out to be a good one. It involved my choice of shirt for the day. I do not have a Sounders soccer jersey, so I could not make the obvious dressing choice by wearing the home team's jersey. So, I went with the Spanish National Team (David Villa, number 7). This turned out to be a good choice, but not without a little complication. The positive: I stood out boldly, a clear soccer-aficionado, in the strong red color of the Spanish home jersey. As I was walking into the stadium, a voice shouted triumphantly "David Villa" (with correct pronunciation). Proudly, I acknowledged the acknowledgement with a raised fist. As I mentioned, my bold shirt had a slightly unexpected impact as well. I was immediately identifiable to the many people near the stadium who were asking for money. "Hey number 7, Got any change?" and "hey you, in the red shirt, can you help me out?" The above comments were made by two particularly unsavory (and drunk, I think) guys whose attention I could have done without. However, such is the price to pay when making a statement with one's clothes. Despite the unwanted attention, I was still contented with my choice. One can never go wrong with David Villa.
Perhaps the choice that had the most potential for going awry came soon after I entered the stadium. It involved that mystical item that I so covet: the soccer jersey. Now, my wife had wisely put me on a soccer jersey-restriction after my soccer jersey binge this summer. But, she surely wouldn't mind if I bought my boys some jerseys... So I did. And while I was doing that... I bought myself a sweatshirt (a very sweet one with adidas insignia, the Sounders crest, and stripes down the arms). How could I resist? It was the 'item of the match' (meaning it was on sale). But I didn't want to leave my wife out. She would look awesome in a smooth soccer training jersey. Should I buy her something? Or would it be wasted money (as I was pretty sure that she wouldn't be as enthusiastic about receiving a soccer jersey as my boys would be). I consulted one of my friends as to my course of action. "Should I call my wife and ask if she wants me to buy her something?" I wondered aloud, "keep in mind that she might not be totally pleased with my purchases at all as we had an understanding that I was done with soccer jerseys until the holidays." "Well," my friend advised, "if she says that you should return the stuff, will you?" "I hope not," I murmured lamely. "Still," my friend continued, "it is a good idea to offer to buy her something. It would be a nice gesture." So, I called. As it turns out, it was so loud in the stadium that my wife heard nothing that I said; I heard nothing that she said. So, all was good, right? "How'd it go?" my friend asked. "I think it went well," I said uncertainly, "I couldn't actually hear anything she said." We decided that that might be for the best. When I got home, I am happy to report, my choice to buy the gear turned out to be a good one. My wife smiled fondly (or resignedly) when she saw my new purchase. She also liked what I bought the boys. Both boys greeted the purchases with "cool!!!" My older son immediately put the jersey on and began to chant, "I love the Sounders, I love the Sounders." (Now, a day later, he is sitting beside me watching Chelsea versus Arsenal wearing the same jersey). Buying the soccer jerseys (and sweatshirt for me): good choice.
The game was a great time. It passed without any more choices of note. (Other than my bold decision to get an Italian sausage for lunch as opposed to a slice of pizza). Yet, I was greeted with another key decision as I bade my wife a pleasant evening (as she was departing for work). "What are you guys going to do for dinner?" my wife asked. "I don't know," I said, "pizza?" "Well," my wife pointed out, "we are probably going to order out tomorrow night, so maybe you can finish the sausages that we have in the fridge." [Maybe my decision to have a sausage at the game wasn't so bright, after all]. So, we had sausages, lentils, and peach cobbler. It was a successful meal, and quickly thrown together (left-overs); a plus, because we needed enough time enjoy the evening's entertainment, the Karate Kid (the original with Ralph Maccio).
This proved to be another good choice. No matter how many times I see that movie, it never fails to thrill me when Daniel uses the crane position to kick Johnny in the nose. The only reality that prevents the Karate Kid from being a totally positive choice is that my boys, for some inexplicable reason, think that Johnny (the movie's entitled, brutal villain) is cool. Are we not watching the same movie???!!!!??? Please!!!!!!!
After the movie, we decided to play a little soccer in the play room (despite the fact that it was 8:30 at the movie's end). This was not such a good decision. This became painfully (literally) clear when I preformed a smooth looking backward kick reminiscent of Ronaldhino. My older son, who was being valiantly aggressive in goal had slid in to block my shot. Unaware, I solidly kicked him in the stomach. Once I saw what I had done, I, of course, attended to my injured boy. Poor thing. As I knelt down to try to make him feel better, my boy rolled around in a pseudo-fetal position moaning, "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die." Luckily, he felt better a moment later and we continued playing. I was careful not to try to emulate any other soccer-greats. Any choice that leads to kicking one's son in the stomach: bad decision, poor choice.
Also, my boys ended up going to bed considerably later than their 8:30 weekend bed-time. This, however, had a positive outcome. My wife returned home at 9:12. She found us in the basement, sweaty, but exhilarated from some crisp soccer. She greeted us warmly, clearly pleased to get the chance to help put the boys to bed. Her smile faltered a tad when my older son greeted her with "daddy kicked me in the stomach." I jest. What's a kick in the stomach amongst friends (or fathers and sons).
After the boys were put to bed, my wife chose to read upstairs. I retreated to the TV room to catch my figurative breath. In the peaceful quiet, I turned on the TV to relax: good choice.
The first choice was actually presented to me before Saturday, and it was not a terribly difficult one to make. Still, there were issues to consider. A friend of mine, S, invited me and another friend to watch a MLS game (Seattle FC versus Toronto FC). S, who is a sociology professor teaching a course on soccer as a reflection of cultural, political and economic issues, was taking a group of his students to see the game (a nice perk for the students of any soccer-based course). The choice: should I go to the game? A no-brainer, but let's examine the issues anyhow, the most important of which is one of abandonment. Namely, am I mistreating my family by leaving them on a Saturday so I can watch a soccer game? Of course not. So, I chose to accept the kind invitation to the game.
Another choice, of seemingly little importance, turned out to be a good one. It involved my choice of shirt for the day. I do not have a Sounders soccer jersey, so I could not make the obvious dressing choice by wearing the home team's jersey. So, I went with the Spanish National Team (David Villa, number 7). This turned out to be a good choice, but not without a little complication. The positive: I stood out boldly, a clear soccer-aficionado, in the strong red color of the Spanish home jersey. As I was walking into the stadium, a voice shouted triumphantly "David Villa" (with correct pronunciation). Proudly, I acknowledged the acknowledgement with a raised fist. As I mentioned, my bold shirt had a slightly unexpected impact as well. I was immediately identifiable to the many people near the stadium who were asking for money. "Hey number 7, Got any change?" and "hey you, in the red shirt, can you help me out?" The above comments were made by two particularly unsavory (and drunk, I think) guys whose attention I could have done without. However, such is the price to pay when making a statement with one's clothes. Despite the unwanted attention, I was still contented with my choice. One can never go wrong with David Villa.
Perhaps the choice that had the most potential for going awry came soon after I entered the stadium. It involved that mystical item that I so covet: the soccer jersey. Now, my wife had wisely put me on a soccer jersey-restriction after my soccer jersey binge this summer. But, she surely wouldn't mind if I bought my boys some jerseys... So I did. And while I was doing that... I bought myself a sweatshirt (a very sweet one with adidas insignia, the Sounders crest, and stripes down the arms). How could I resist? It was the 'item of the match' (meaning it was on sale). But I didn't want to leave my wife out. She would look awesome in a smooth soccer training jersey. Should I buy her something? Or would it be wasted money (as I was pretty sure that she wouldn't be as enthusiastic about receiving a soccer jersey as my boys would be). I consulted one of my friends as to my course of action. "Should I call my wife and ask if she wants me to buy her something?" I wondered aloud, "keep in mind that she might not be totally pleased with my purchases at all as we had an understanding that I was done with soccer jerseys until the holidays." "Well," my friend advised, "if she says that you should return the stuff, will you?" "I hope not," I murmured lamely. "Still," my friend continued, "it is a good idea to offer to buy her something. It would be a nice gesture." So, I called. As it turns out, it was so loud in the stadium that my wife heard nothing that I said; I heard nothing that she said. So, all was good, right? "How'd it go?" my friend asked. "I think it went well," I said uncertainly, "I couldn't actually hear anything she said." We decided that that might be for the best. When I got home, I am happy to report, my choice to buy the gear turned out to be a good one. My wife smiled fondly (or resignedly) when she saw my new purchase. She also liked what I bought the boys. Both boys greeted the purchases with "cool!!!" My older son immediately put the jersey on and began to chant, "I love the Sounders, I love the Sounders." (Now, a day later, he is sitting beside me watching Chelsea versus Arsenal wearing the same jersey). Buying the soccer jerseys (and sweatshirt for me): good choice.
The game was a great time. It passed without any more choices of note. (Other than my bold decision to get an Italian sausage for lunch as opposed to a slice of pizza). Yet, I was greeted with another key decision as I bade my wife a pleasant evening (as she was departing for work). "What are you guys going to do for dinner?" my wife asked. "I don't know," I said, "pizza?" "Well," my wife pointed out, "we are probably going to order out tomorrow night, so maybe you can finish the sausages that we have in the fridge." [Maybe my decision to have a sausage at the game wasn't so bright, after all]. So, we had sausages, lentils, and peach cobbler. It was a successful meal, and quickly thrown together (left-overs); a plus, because we needed enough time enjoy the evening's entertainment, the Karate Kid (the original with Ralph Maccio).
This proved to be another good choice. No matter how many times I see that movie, it never fails to thrill me when Daniel uses the crane position to kick Johnny in the nose. The only reality that prevents the Karate Kid from being a totally positive choice is that my boys, for some inexplicable reason, think that Johnny (the movie's entitled, brutal villain) is cool. Are we not watching the same movie???!!!!??? Please!!!!!!!
After the movie, we decided to play a little soccer in the play room (despite the fact that it was 8:30 at the movie's end). This was not such a good decision. This became painfully (literally) clear when I preformed a smooth looking backward kick reminiscent of Ronaldhino. My older son, who was being valiantly aggressive in goal had slid in to block my shot. Unaware, I solidly kicked him in the stomach. Once I saw what I had done, I, of course, attended to my injured boy. Poor thing. As I knelt down to try to make him feel better, my boy rolled around in a pseudo-fetal position moaning, "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die." Luckily, he felt better a moment later and we continued playing. I was careful not to try to emulate any other soccer-greats. Any choice that leads to kicking one's son in the stomach: bad decision, poor choice.
Also, my boys ended up going to bed considerably later than their 8:30 weekend bed-time. This, however, had a positive outcome. My wife returned home at 9:12. She found us in the basement, sweaty, but exhilarated from some crisp soccer. She greeted us warmly, clearly pleased to get the chance to help put the boys to bed. Her smile faltered a tad when my older son greeted her with "daddy kicked me in the stomach." I jest. What's a kick in the stomach amongst friends (or fathers and sons).
After the boys were put to bed, my wife chose to read upstairs. I retreated to the TV room to catch my figurative breath. In the peaceful quiet, I turned on the TV to relax: good choice.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Uniforms
my boys' school requires its students to wear uniforms. The upper school girls (there are no upper school boys) wear a blue and white plaid skirt; the middle school kids wear blue shirts and khakis; and the lower schoolers wear red polo shirts and blue pants. There are also dress days, requiring a white button down shirt, tie, vest and khakis. On civvy days, they can wear whatever they want (by "they" I mean me as I use my boys as pint-sized billboards supporting my favorite teams: Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics, assorted soccer jerseys). I had never realized it, but I, too, wear a uniform. This became quite clear to me last Friday.
My wife and I were going to a fancy fundraising event for a hospital where she frequently works. This function necessitated my wearing a coat and tie. (I dress up with the frequency of a total lunar eclipse). In lieu of a babysitter, my boys were going to Kid's Night Out (KNO), a service occasionally offered at my boys' school. At KNO, the high schoolers who board at the school "babysit" (while supervised by two teachers). They have take-out pizza, watch movies, play in the gym; a good time for sure. The only possible downside is that one needs to ferry the boys to school to attend KNO. This was my task. So, I walked my boys to KNO. I was nattily dressed in a blue sports coat and tie. My pants charcoal grey, my loafers jet black, I looked icy cool (or like the millions of people who dress-up daily for work- it's a matter of perspective). The route to school is one that we travel daily, but this night's walk was different. In the fifteen minute walk to school, we were stopped by five different people who addressed my boys or me regarding my dress: "I've never seen you in a tie," "looking good," "are your mom and dad going on a date?" "where's your father?" and "who is this good-looking guy? And what's he done with your dad?" This is not to mention the two neighbors who stared at us mutely, their slightly bemused expressions seemingly asking: what's wrong with this scene?". At school the teachers supervising KNO greeted my boys with "hi guys" and me with, "don't you look dolled up?". My attire had its impact on the other parents dropping their kids odd at KNO. One woman was shocked when she saw it was me. "From a distance," she said, "I saw this gentleman whom I did not know, but it turned out to be you.". I got various other comments complimenting my look, including an enthusiastic "you look great.". My dressing up had quite an impact. Now, one could take this experience and appreciate the compliments or one could read between the lines. If people are falling over themselves to favorably comment on my appearance tonight (on the dressed-up full lunar eclipse), what are they thinking when they see me on a daily basis? "Oh, here's that slouch with the cute boys. Hopefully, they'll be better dressed adults than their father." Or "long sleeve t-shirt and jeans again??!!?? Really!!??!!" One parent passed me in the hallway last week, she looked at my shirt (a Lionel Messi Barcelona jersey!) and chuckled, "oh, my ten-year old has that same shirt."
The whole dressing-up experience made me evaluate my stay-at-home uniform. From September to mid October (and any sunny fifty degree-plus day following, I wear shorts (khaki, olive, or blue), an athletic shirt (long-sleeve t, soccer jersey, polo shirt, a Patriot or Red Sox t-shirt), and sneakers (cool sneakers, mind you- Nike Air Max cross-trainers or some throw-back Adidas shell-toes). As the weather grows colder and wetter, the shorts become jeans (various shades of blue, and black) or Nike Sportswear pants (I prefer these to the Adidas pants as the Adidas have no back pocket). Very Occasionally, I'll wear a button-down shirt and nice pants, but this can only happen when my wife has the day off and can drive us to school. The walk to and from school is only a mile and a half, but the hills are steep; this requires exertion and who wants to sweat in nice clothes?
The stay-at-home father uniform should allow for proper execution of stay-at-home dad duties. Helping with homework and violin can be done in any garb; loving, supporting and nurturing one's children similarly involves no set dress, but all the sports that I play with my boys? That, my friends, requires forethought. I will keep this truth with me like a shield, deflecting all the negative thoughts sent my way. Slouch? Ten year-old appearing? These words bounce off me. Tired of seeing my long-sleeved t and jeans? Tough! A Surgeon is not mocked for wearing scrubs, a scientist is not ridiculed for wearing a lab coat, a gladiator receives no jeers for wearing armor, a stay-at-home father should not be looked down on for wearing his uniform. As I am writing this, I am wearing my Nike sneakers, some blue shorts, and a Real Madrid jersey. And I look sharp, and ready to parent, a stay-at-home dad primed for battle.
My wife and I were going to a fancy fundraising event for a hospital where she frequently works. This function necessitated my wearing a coat and tie. (I dress up with the frequency of a total lunar eclipse). In lieu of a babysitter, my boys were going to Kid's Night Out (KNO), a service occasionally offered at my boys' school. At KNO, the high schoolers who board at the school "babysit" (while supervised by two teachers). They have take-out pizza, watch movies, play in the gym; a good time for sure. The only possible downside is that one needs to ferry the boys to school to attend KNO. This was my task. So, I walked my boys to KNO. I was nattily dressed in a blue sports coat and tie. My pants charcoal grey, my loafers jet black, I looked icy cool (or like the millions of people who dress-up daily for work- it's a matter of perspective). The route to school is one that we travel daily, but this night's walk was different. In the fifteen minute walk to school, we were stopped by five different people who addressed my boys or me regarding my dress: "I've never seen you in a tie," "looking good," "are your mom and dad going on a date?" "where's your father?" and "who is this good-looking guy? And what's he done with your dad?" This is not to mention the two neighbors who stared at us mutely, their slightly bemused expressions seemingly asking: what's wrong with this scene?". At school the teachers supervising KNO greeted my boys with "hi guys" and me with, "don't you look dolled up?". My attire had its impact on the other parents dropping their kids odd at KNO. One woman was shocked when she saw it was me. "From a distance," she said, "I saw this gentleman whom I did not know, but it turned out to be you.". I got various other comments complimenting my look, including an enthusiastic "you look great.". My dressing up had quite an impact. Now, one could take this experience and appreciate the compliments or one could read between the lines. If people are falling over themselves to favorably comment on my appearance tonight (on the dressed-up full lunar eclipse), what are they thinking when they see me on a daily basis? "Oh, here's that slouch with the cute boys. Hopefully, they'll be better dressed adults than their father." Or "long sleeve t-shirt and jeans again??!!?? Really!!??!!" One parent passed me in the hallway last week, she looked at my shirt (a Lionel Messi Barcelona jersey!) and chuckled, "oh, my ten-year old has that same shirt."
The whole dressing-up experience made me evaluate my stay-at-home uniform. From September to mid October (and any sunny fifty degree-plus day following, I wear shorts (khaki, olive, or blue), an athletic shirt (long-sleeve t, soccer jersey, polo shirt, a Patriot or Red Sox t-shirt), and sneakers (cool sneakers, mind you- Nike Air Max cross-trainers or some throw-back Adidas shell-toes). As the weather grows colder and wetter, the shorts become jeans (various shades of blue, and black) or Nike Sportswear pants (I prefer these to the Adidas pants as the Adidas have no back pocket). Very Occasionally, I'll wear a button-down shirt and nice pants, but this can only happen when my wife has the day off and can drive us to school. The walk to and from school is only a mile and a half, but the hills are steep; this requires exertion and who wants to sweat in nice clothes?
The stay-at-home father uniform should allow for proper execution of stay-at-home dad duties. Helping with homework and violin can be done in any garb; loving, supporting and nurturing one's children similarly involves no set dress, but all the sports that I play with my boys? That, my friends, requires forethought. I will keep this truth with me like a shield, deflecting all the negative thoughts sent my way. Slouch? Ten year-old appearing? These words bounce off me. Tired of seeing my long-sleeved t and jeans? Tough! A Surgeon is not mocked for wearing scrubs, a scientist is not ridiculed for wearing a lab coat, a gladiator receives no jeers for wearing armor, a stay-at-home father should not be looked down on for wearing his uniform. As I am writing this, I am wearing my Nike sneakers, some blue shorts, and a Real Madrid jersey. And I look sharp, and ready to parent, a stay-at-home dad primed for battle.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Intensity, Part II: Ways to deal with it
Last post, I discussed the treacherous waters of intensity. Dabbling in intensity can, of course, be fruitful: the more intense one is in a certain activity, the more chance for them to develop skills therein. However, how does one deal with intensity when one doesn't want to embrace it fully? I believe that one afternoon/evening two days ago could provide some insight.
The boys and I were enjoying a boys' night (when my wife works late, and we watch movies and eat chinese food in front of the TV). The movie was over, but it wasn't quite bed-time. The boys (and I am referring to all three of us) decided that we needed to play a little soccer before bed.
It was sons versus father. This is always a good idea. The goal of any athletic endeavor with young children should be, in my opinion, to make sure that they enjoy themselves, thus assuring further playing later. One essential key to a young child's enjoying a sporting event is having them enjoy success. This is much easier with both boys on the same team. If their team wins (i.e. if you lose), they are happy. This happiness is harder to attain when one child plays on the father's team. If the father's team wins, the lone player (usually my older son) feels cheated because he was alone; if the lone players wins, my team-mate (usually my 5-year old) feels cheated because he thinks I didn't try hard enough. With both boys on one team, my task was easy: let them win (although as I posted earlier: my "letting them win" is not so much a personal choice anymore; they are winning, but I am not sure that I am "letting" them). Our games are always good-hearted and played with much love, however, my older boy, perhaps the most susceptible to intensity, can become cut-throat competitive at the drop of a hat (or "way too hype" as my younger son puts it). He has his own way of dealing with his tendency to become too intense. His strategy? Win, or assure that the game will be played giving him a chance of winning. He had initially argued against playing with his brother (for fear that it would lessen his chances of winning). "He's not good enough," my older son complained, seemingly oblivious to his callous comments' effect on his brother's psyche. "Wait a minute," I said, "are you trying to say that, as a five-year old, your brother might not be at an eight-year old level? Are you insinuating that if you, my older son, were five and your brother was eight, you would not be good enough?" My older son grudgingly agreed that it was a matter of athletic development due to age and not an inherent "he's not good enough" from which his complaints emanated. My younger son didn't seem terribly distressed by his brother's original comment or mollified by my clarifying exactly what his older brother was trying to say. But, I had done my part as a parent to assure that no feelings were hurt. Before the game began, I made sure to inform my older son that I would adjust my play to the age of my opponents (i.e. I wouldn't shoot with as much force as I do when my eight-year old is in goal). Now, my older boy was eager to play. Once, he had been assured that the game would be fair, that he would carry no unfair burden he was fine. (I need to mention that my five-year old is actually a really good player; I am not intending to diminish his skills but merely to convey how my older son sees his younger brother's ability). For my older, his being intense in regard to a game is manageable so long as he feels the game is fair.
My younger son's approach to dealing with intensity is genius. He injects every competitive (or intense for these purposes) venture with a healthy dose of imaginary play. During our soccer game, for example, he would, after every save he made, twirl and slash an imaginary sword or punch the air twice, shoot a pretend bow, and kick the air. This was really funny, and made even more so by my older son's passionate pleas to "focus" or "pass me the ball" or "would you stop attacking imaginary foes! PLEASE!!!" I had to step in at one point and calmly tell my 5-year old that "if he wants to play soccer, he really needs to stop his pretend battles- at least until half-time." But this is my younger boy's way of dealing with an intense event. My younger boy avoids the intensity by refusing to completely commit to the intense event. Rather than engage fully in a game that is getting "way too hype," he keeps a healthy distance, battling his way to a peaceful spot. When the intensity is getting too much, my younger boy goes to perhaps his most comfortable spot: battling countless invisible enemies. If he can ever harness that energy and put it toward sports, he will be the next Bo Jackson or Deion Sanders (professional in multiple sports).
I have my own method of avoiding intensity. I don't like to acknowledge it, but I can be a tad competitive. This has made my playing tennis enjoyable, but often stressful. I think that I have found the perfect answer. My new tennis partners, whom I play with every Monday and Wednesday, are all 75-years old and older. Now, this may sound like a cop-out (playing much older players), but they are actually really good. Also, they play hard, but are not competitive at all. This is exactly the athletic environment that I enjoy. Also, they have the most prized time spot at the courts. They have the elusive 1:30 time spot. So treasured because it ends at 2:45, giving me the perfect amount of time to shower and walk next door to my boys' school for pick-up at 3:10. There are other rewards. Even players my own age have commented on my speed on the court, but people in their seventies- PLEASE. They are floored by my quickness. One of the guys I played with looked at me wistfully after I had run down a lob: "you're like a gazelle," he marveled. Perhaps the thing that I like most about my new tennis partners has nothing to do with athletics at all. They have a really cool nick name for themselves; for us, I guess. One of the players turned to me after tennis the other day. "Welcome to the AOFs," he said. "AOFs?" I asked. "We're the Awesome Old Farts," he said, "now we're the AOFs plus one."
The boys and I were enjoying a boys' night (when my wife works late, and we watch movies and eat chinese food in front of the TV). The movie was over, but it wasn't quite bed-time. The boys (and I am referring to all three of us) decided that we needed to play a little soccer before bed.
It was sons versus father. This is always a good idea. The goal of any athletic endeavor with young children should be, in my opinion, to make sure that they enjoy themselves, thus assuring further playing later. One essential key to a young child's enjoying a sporting event is having them enjoy success. This is much easier with both boys on the same team. If their team wins (i.e. if you lose), they are happy. This happiness is harder to attain when one child plays on the father's team. If the father's team wins, the lone player (usually my older son) feels cheated because he was alone; if the lone players wins, my team-mate (usually my 5-year old) feels cheated because he thinks I didn't try hard enough. With both boys on one team, my task was easy: let them win (although as I posted earlier: my "letting them win" is not so much a personal choice anymore; they are winning, but I am not sure that I am "letting" them). Our games are always good-hearted and played with much love, however, my older boy, perhaps the most susceptible to intensity, can become cut-throat competitive at the drop of a hat (or "way too hype" as my younger son puts it). He has his own way of dealing with his tendency to become too intense. His strategy? Win, or assure that the game will be played giving him a chance of winning. He had initially argued against playing with his brother (for fear that it would lessen his chances of winning). "He's not good enough," my older son complained, seemingly oblivious to his callous comments' effect on his brother's psyche. "Wait a minute," I said, "are you trying to say that, as a five-year old, your brother might not be at an eight-year old level? Are you insinuating that if you, my older son, were five and your brother was eight, you would not be good enough?" My older son grudgingly agreed that it was a matter of athletic development due to age and not an inherent "he's not good enough" from which his complaints emanated. My younger son didn't seem terribly distressed by his brother's original comment or mollified by my clarifying exactly what his older brother was trying to say. But, I had done my part as a parent to assure that no feelings were hurt. Before the game began, I made sure to inform my older son that I would adjust my play to the age of my opponents (i.e. I wouldn't shoot with as much force as I do when my eight-year old is in goal). Now, my older boy was eager to play. Once, he had been assured that the game would be fair, that he would carry no unfair burden he was fine. (I need to mention that my five-year old is actually a really good player; I am not intending to diminish his skills but merely to convey how my older son sees his younger brother's ability). For my older, his being intense in regard to a game is manageable so long as he feels the game is fair.
My younger son's approach to dealing with intensity is genius. He injects every competitive (or intense for these purposes) venture with a healthy dose of imaginary play. During our soccer game, for example, he would, after every save he made, twirl and slash an imaginary sword or punch the air twice, shoot a pretend bow, and kick the air. This was really funny, and made even more so by my older son's passionate pleas to "focus" or "pass me the ball" or "would you stop attacking imaginary foes! PLEASE!!!" I had to step in at one point and calmly tell my 5-year old that "if he wants to play soccer, he really needs to stop his pretend battles- at least until half-time." But this is my younger boy's way of dealing with an intense event. My younger boy avoids the intensity by refusing to completely commit to the intense event. Rather than engage fully in a game that is getting "way too hype," he keeps a healthy distance, battling his way to a peaceful spot. When the intensity is getting too much, my younger boy goes to perhaps his most comfortable spot: battling countless invisible enemies. If he can ever harness that energy and put it toward sports, he will be the next Bo Jackson or Deion Sanders (professional in multiple sports).
I have my own method of avoiding intensity. I don't like to acknowledge it, but I can be a tad competitive. This has made my playing tennis enjoyable, but often stressful. I think that I have found the perfect answer. My new tennis partners, whom I play with every Monday and Wednesday, are all 75-years old and older. Now, this may sound like a cop-out (playing much older players), but they are actually really good. Also, they play hard, but are not competitive at all. This is exactly the athletic environment that I enjoy. Also, they have the most prized time spot at the courts. They have the elusive 1:30 time spot. So treasured because it ends at 2:45, giving me the perfect amount of time to shower and walk next door to my boys' school for pick-up at 3:10. There are other rewards. Even players my own age have commented on my speed on the court, but people in their seventies- PLEASE. They are floored by my quickness. One of the guys I played with looked at me wistfully after I had run down a lob: "you're like a gazelle," he marveled. Perhaps the thing that I like most about my new tennis partners has nothing to do with athletics at all. They have a really cool nick name for themselves; for us, I guess. One of the players turned to me after tennis the other day. "Welcome to the AOFs," he said. "AOFs?" I asked. "We're the Awesome Old Farts," he said, "now we're the AOFs plus one."
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Intensity versus enthusiasm: a parent's perspective
My wife and I had dinner last weekend with a couple whom we do not know very well. I usually handle these circumstances very well as I, either, monopolize the talking so as to avoid any awkward silences or use the therapeutic technique of mirroring (when you aren't sure what to say, repeat exactly what was said to you; the person with whom you are talking will feel that they are being listened to and will be happy). This particular dinner, however, was a dud. The couple was nice, and the food was delicious, but the conversation left me speechless. I felt as I did when, at a family reunion of my wife's, one of her distant cousins approached me and began to babble in Basque, a very confusing language whose only relatives are Finnish and Hungarian. I looked at the cousin with a confused, befuddled half-smile. This is how I looked during the dinner, as if some incomprehensible language was being spoken. I literally had nothing to say. In retrospect, this is bizarre because many of the themes that we were discussing are ones with which I can relate. P, the husband in the couple, is passionate about debate just as I am passionate about sports. His children are really good debaters, and he practices with them daily just as my children are good athletes, and I practice with them. (I am leaving out the obvious emphasis and time that any good parent puts on academics). So, why was our dinner conversation (my end, anyhow) so lacking? Why couldn't I relate to him on the obvious similarities (enthusiasm/passion) that we share?
I believe that the problem relating can be attributed to a fundamental (but subtle) difference in our respective zeal. P is intense. He "has and shows firm purpose and great seriousness" regarding music and his children's involvement in debate. I, on the other hand, am very enthusiastic, even passionate, regarding athletics. I'm "an ardent supporter" who has "strong intense feelings," but I do not treat athletics with "a great seriousness." Where's the fun in that? To be fair, it needs to be noted that P's children are older than mine (15 and 12 as opposed to 8 and 5). Maybe their being older requires a greater seriousness. I can, perhaps, afford to be less intense because my boys and I are simply playing sports. Just games, right?
But maybe I should take a page out of T's book. Is it time for me to pump up the intensity in regards to my children's athletic lives? I have documented the frequency with which we played soccer this summer (and are continuing to after-school). This has garnered tangible results. At this Saturday's game, three different parents approached me to compliment my son's playing. My younger son, whose season has not yet started, is excelling at practice and in our playroom (he likes pretending to be Iker Cassillas, making diving saves- landing safely on strategically placed bean-bags). However, there are negatives that go along with my pumping up the intensity. One obvious negative that leaps to mind regards my muscles, which always seem to be aching after vain attempts to match an 8- and 5-year old's ability to sustain to play endlessly. Another negative concerns intensity's communicable nature. My older son is particularly sensitive to this. During one game of one-on-one soccer, he burst into tears after I had scored (he was beating me 6-0 when I scored). We stopped the game so I could figure out what was troubling him. "I should beat you 10-0," he wailed, "even letting in one goal is to much." Did someone say arts-and-crafts? The negative qualities of athletic intensity have appeared vis-a-vis my younger son, as well. I help out at his soccer practices, and the kids were participating in a shielding/dribbling drill. I was supposed to approach a child, allow him or her to shield the ball with his/her body, and then allow them to dribble away. Not a difficult task, yet somehow the athletically-intense me showed up and caused problems. After one little boy had successfully shielded the ball with his body, he began to dribble away from me, happy in his accomplishment. Enter intense-me. I, somehow, decided that it would be a good idea to take one last poke at the ball with my foot. It was more realistic, I figured, defenders aren't just going to let the opposing player dribble away. Anyhow, I ended up tripping this boy. With a spectacular thud, he face-planted into the grass. He was fine, and the whole incident went unnoticed, but the danger signs were clear. Too much athletic intensity can cloud one's judgement.
To be intense or not to be intense, that is the question. I am not sure that I know the answer. It seems, like so much else in life, to have caused some positives and some negatives. It seems to me, however, that any intensity regarding activities should wait until children are older. One must be careful. A child should choose the arena into which he will pour his intensity. A younger child is, obviously, not yet in the position to make such a decision. So, vis-a-vis my boys: we'll keep it light. Enjoying the sports without causing tears, tripping youngsters or tearing my muscles.
I believe that the problem relating can be attributed to a fundamental (but subtle) difference in our respective zeal. P is intense. He "has and shows firm purpose and great seriousness" regarding music and his children's involvement in debate. I, on the other hand, am very enthusiastic, even passionate, regarding athletics. I'm "an ardent supporter" who has "strong intense feelings," but I do not treat athletics with "a great seriousness." Where's the fun in that? To be fair, it needs to be noted that P's children are older than mine (15 and 12 as opposed to 8 and 5). Maybe their being older requires a greater seriousness. I can, perhaps, afford to be less intense because my boys and I are simply playing sports. Just games, right?
But maybe I should take a page out of T's book. Is it time for me to pump up the intensity in regards to my children's athletic lives? I have documented the frequency with which we played soccer this summer (and are continuing to after-school). This has garnered tangible results. At this Saturday's game, three different parents approached me to compliment my son's playing. My younger son, whose season has not yet started, is excelling at practice and in our playroom (he likes pretending to be Iker Cassillas, making diving saves- landing safely on strategically placed bean-bags). However, there are negatives that go along with my pumping up the intensity. One obvious negative that leaps to mind regards my muscles, which always seem to be aching after vain attempts to match an 8- and 5-year old's ability to sustain to play endlessly. Another negative concerns intensity's communicable nature. My older son is particularly sensitive to this. During one game of one-on-one soccer, he burst into tears after I had scored (he was beating me 6-0 when I scored). We stopped the game so I could figure out what was troubling him. "I should beat you 10-0," he wailed, "even letting in one goal is to much." Did someone say arts-and-crafts? The negative qualities of athletic intensity have appeared vis-a-vis my younger son, as well. I help out at his soccer practices, and the kids were participating in a shielding/dribbling drill. I was supposed to approach a child, allow him or her to shield the ball with his/her body, and then allow them to dribble away. Not a difficult task, yet somehow the athletically-intense me showed up and caused problems. After one little boy had successfully shielded the ball with his body, he began to dribble away from me, happy in his accomplishment. Enter intense-me. I, somehow, decided that it would be a good idea to take one last poke at the ball with my foot. It was more realistic, I figured, defenders aren't just going to let the opposing player dribble away. Anyhow, I ended up tripping this boy. With a spectacular thud, he face-planted into the grass. He was fine, and the whole incident went unnoticed, but the danger signs were clear. Too much athletic intensity can cloud one's judgement.
To be intense or not to be intense, that is the question. I am not sure that I know the answer. It seems, like so much else in life, to have caused some positives and some negatives. It seems to me, however, that any intensity regarding activities should wait until children are older. One must be careful. A child should choose the arena into which he will pour his intensity. A younger child is, obviously, not yet in the position to make such a decision. So, vis-a-vis my boys: we'll keep it light. Enjoying the sports without causing tears, tripping youngsters or tearing my muscles.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Start of Soccer Season or Enthusiasm, and Its Benefits
Soccer season began this weekend, and my natural inclination is to spend this entire posting crowing about the game. However, to cater to the less sports-inclined among my readers I will focus on enthusiasm, an attitude with which I'm well acquainted. Webster's Dictionary defines enthusiasm as "supernatural inspiration or possession; inspired ecstasy; intense or eager interest; fervor or zeal." To be an enthusiast is to be "an ardent supporter." Enthusiasm, meet your human relatives: me and my family.
My boys awoke this past Saturday at 7AM. My older boy dressed quickly for his soccer game and entered my room. "Daddy," he said breathlessly,"get up! We're missing Chelsea versus West Ham." He was referring to the English Premier League match. He was excited. We had been discussing European professional football at great length this summer (see my earlier postings), but had yet to see a match televised. I, then, heard my younger son approach. I expected him to enter with his Saturday fixture: "can we watch Hotwheels Battle Force Five?" What I saw near moved me to tears. Fully dressed in his Brazilian Football Kit (official jersey, official shorts, and official socks), he said, "daddy, get up. Soccer." I was feeling very excited about the pro-soccer vibe, but my youngest son's next question made me even happier. "Daddy, can I wear my cleats while we watch the game?" With contented smiles, we went downstairs to watch Chelsea versus West Ham. It was a Rockwellian scene if there's ever been one. A proud father and his two boys (both in full soccer uniforms).
After watching the soccer game for a little bit, it was time to go to my older son's soccer match. It was a thrilling affair for various reasons. On a personal level, I was juggling the soccer ball like a seasoned pro. With ease, I dribbled the ball around my younger son and one of his kindergarten friends. I looked and felt good. I belonged on the football pitch. Perhaps more important from a paternal/mature adult level was my younger son's skill. He can really kick the ball, he's fast, and gives off a loose, relaxed, yet talented vibe that evokes Ronaldhino. Most importantly of the various factors that made my eldest son's match a thrilling affair was his play. We played a team with exceptional goal-tenders. Still, our best player (and my son's best friend) scored the first goal. I recognized this game plan. My son's friend would score a bunch of goals and we would coast to victory on his coattails. Or would we? My sons' opponents were well-coached and battle-worn. They did not give up easyily. Indeed, they scored the next three goals. One of these goals was scored on my son, but he still acquitted himself well in goal. Into half-time we went, down 3-1. In my head, I was repeating the mantra "it's not about winning or losing; it's about having fun." Second half starts. My son gets off a couple of excellent shots on goals. Both blocked. My son's good friend (our, as of yet, sole goal-scorer) blasted an excellent shot that bounces off of the back of the goalie's head. No goal. It seems we will have to go home with the bitter taste of defeat in our mouth's. Nay and nay. My son, no longer playing goalie, received the ball to the right of the opposing goalie (from the edge of the goalie's box). With tremendous force and velocity, he blasted the ball off his foot as if shot from a cannon. GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL. But we still trailed by one point. Surely, someone would step up and score the trying goal. But who? Soon the answer came. My son received (poetically enough) a crisp pass from his friend. But at too sharp an angle for a clear shot on goal. With a slight step to the right, my boy once again uncorks a vicious strike . Once again, the sweet satisfaction of a goal. He tied the game. It remained tied. There is true honor in a draw. Particularly in a draw secured in such exciting fashion.
Now, can one draw a direct line from my enthusiastically pushing soccer all summer and the wonderful events of this Saturday morning? Did enthusiasm play a role? I'll let others decide, but one cannot deny that the "inspired ecstasy" [of my boys' and I] had created a "fervor and zeal" that facilitated frequent practicing and thinking about soccer that lead to some very favorable results. Also, being "ardent supporters" of the sport made watching Chelsea versus West Ham fun.
Later Saturday afternoon, I was playing (believe it or not) soccer with my boys when I decided we needed a rest (I did anyway). I told my boys that there was a video on the computer that I wanted them to see. I had been reading an article in Sports Illustrated about big wave surfing, an awe-inspiring endeavor in which people attempt to surf waves of up to 100 feet. I had decided to find footage of this sport on Youtube to show my boys. I thought that the combination of the surfer's bravery and skill and the wave's awesome power would appeal to my boys. My older boy declined to watch the video. He stayed downstairs to continue kicking the soccer ball. My younger son and I went to watch the videos of Laird Hamilton, best big wave surfer of all time. As we watched the video, I was describing to my son just how powerful and dangerous these waves were. I told him that while these waves are cresting the space created is so huge that an office building could fit inside. I told him a story of a surfer who was sucked under by one of these huge waves and shot underwater 500 meters by the force created. (There's nothing like a good Sports Illustrated article to engender the proper sense of wonder in an event). So, we watched in silence as this incredibly brave man surfed through this monstrous wave. After a time, I looked over my shoulder to see if my son was equally awed by what we were seeing. I turned more fully, to find my son in a perfect surfer's pose (we don't surf, but he looked like the guy we were watching). His legs were bent at the knees, his hamstrings flexing. He had his front arm extended as if trying to point toward the shore. His back arm was stretched behind him at an 120 degree angle, feeling for the wave just as Laird Hamilton was. His concentration was absolute. He was feeling this moment. He was riding the big wave. In our study, on the rug, in safety, he was surfing the biggest wave in the world. Once he was done with the wave, he looked at me. The expression in my boy's face could only be described as inspired ecstasy.
My wife has begun running recently, and yesterday, she had a 5K race. There was a 1K race for kids that was run just prior to the adults' race. My younger son did not feel like participating. He was probably a little overwhelmed by the hubbub. My older boy did run. And he ran really well. He was so inspired that he wants to run in a 5K that my wife is doing in November (many parents run 5Ks with their kids). "That was so awesome," he gushed to my wife as we drove home, "can we go on a run this afternoon?" Yes, occasionally enthusiasm can be exhausting, but the good outweighs the bad by far.
Sports-related enthusiasm is not the only sort that is in the air. My boys, due entirely to my wife's passion for it, are very enthusiastic gardeners. My younger boy, oddly, loves to participate in the growing of and eating, raw, of Swiss Chard. The truism different strokes for different folks applies to enthusiasm as well. On the topic of different strokes for different folks, my older boy LOVES going to our neighbor's house to help her pull weeds. She is an excellent gardener and often shares her spoils with us. Yesterday, my older boy said, in response to her suggestion that he pick some blueberries that she had grown, "but I feel so bad. We're always taking the stuff that you grow." "It's a pleasure," she said, "I love giving the fruit to you because you're always so enthusiastic!" Score yet another point for the virtues of enthusiasm.
Enthusiasm benefitted our house in another way, yesterday. My wife asked my boys and I what we wanted for dinner. She had run the 5K race earlier in the day, so I suggested that we make something easy. Both boys had a different opinion. "Make paella," they screamed in cheerful unison, "we love your paella. It's so good. So delicious. So wonderful. We need it. Please." At this, my younger son raised his pointer and middle fingers to his lips, kissed them, then sent off peace signs to display his approval/love of paella. He did this rapidly, sending out kissed peace-signs by the hundreds. Simultaneously, my older boy got up and joyfully, for lack of a better word, shook his booty. He danced his affirmation of the dinner choice. My wife, who had looked pretty tired beforehand, smiled and was given energy from the boys' reaction to her question. "Alright," she said, "we'll have paella."
In one weekend, enthusiasm's finger-prints were all over a super soccer experience, a joyful jogging experience, the getting of tasty berries from our neighbor, and a delicious paella for dinner. This weekend, enthusiasm resulted in positive outcomes. Sometimes, there might not be many positive outcomes to be found. Yet still, enthusiasm is of great use. One can skirt the treacherous depths of sadness, riding the positive energy of enthusiasm like a young big wave surfer pointing toward shore.
My boys awoke this past Saturday at 7AM. My older boy dressed quickly for his soccer game and entered my room. "Daddy," he said breathlessly,"get up! We're missing Chelsea versus West Ham." He was referring to the English Premier League match. He was excited. We had been discussing European professional football at great length this summer (see my earlier postings), but had yet to see a match televised. I, then, heard my younger son approach. I expected him to enter with his Saturday fixture: "can we watch Hotwheels Battle Force Five?" What I saw near moved me to tears. Fully dressed in his Brazilian Football Kit (official jersey, official shorts, and official socks), he said, "daddy, get up. Soccer." I was feeling very excited about the pro-soccer vibe, but my youngest son's next question made me even happier. "Daddy, can I wear my cleats while we watch the game?" With contented smiles, we went downstairs to watch Chelsea versus West Ham. It was a Rockwellian scene if there's ever been one. A proud father and his two boys (both in full soccer uniforms).
After watching the soccer game for a little bit, it was time to go to my older son's soccer match. It was a thrilling affair for various reasons. On a personal level, I was juggling the soccer ball like a seasoned pro. With ease, I dribbled the ball around my younger son and one of his kindergarten friends. I looked and felt good. I belonged on the football pitch. Perhaps more important from a paternal/mature adult level was my younger son's skill. He can really kick the ball, he's fast, and gives off a loose, relaxed, yet talented vibe that evokes Ronaldhino. Most importantly of the various factors that made my eldest son's match a thrilling affair was his play. We played a team with exceptional goal-tenders. Still, our best player (and my son's best friend) scored the first goal. I recognized this game plan. My son's friend would score a bunch of goals and we would coast to victory on his coattails. Or would we? My sons' opponents were well-coached and battle-worn. They did not give up easyily. Indeed, they scored the next three goals. One of these goals was scored on my son, but he still acquitted himself well in goal. Into half-time we went, down 3-1. In my head, I was repeating the mantra "it's not about winning or losing; it's about having fun." Second half starts. My son gets off a couple of excellent shots on goals. Both blocked. My son's good friend (our, as of yet, sole goal-scorer) blasted an excellent shot that bounces off of the back of the goalie's head. No goal. It seems we will have to go home with the bitter taste of defeat in our mouth's. Nay and nay. My son, no longer playing goalie, received the ball to the right of the opposing goalie (from the edge of the goalie's box). With tremendous force and velocity, he blasted the ball off his foot as if shot from a cannon. GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL. But we still trailed by one point. Surely, someone would step up and score the trying goal. But who? Soon the answer came. My son received (poetically enough) a crisp pass from his friend. But at too sharp an angle for a clear shot on goal. With a slight step to the right, my boy once again uncorks a vicious strike . Once again, the sweet satisfaction of a goal. He tied the game. It remained tied. There is true honor in a draw. Particularly in a draw secured in such exciting fashion.
Now, can one draw a direct line from my enthusiastically pushing soccer all summer and the wonderful events of this Saturday morning? Did enthusiasm play a role? I'll let others decide, but one cannot deny that the "inspired ecstasy" [of my boys' and I] had created a "fervor and zeal" that facilitated frequent practicing and thinking about soccer that lead to some very favorable results. Also, being "ardent supporters" of the sport made watching Chelsea versus West Ham fun.
Later Saturday afternoon, I was playing (believe it or not) soccer with my boys when I decided we needed a rest (I did anyway). I told my boys that there was a video on the computer that I wanted them to see. I had been reading an article in Sports Illustrated about big wave surfing, an awe-inspiring endeavor in which people attempt to surf waves of up to 100 feet. I had decided to find footage of this sport on Youtube to show my boys. I thought that the combination of the surfer's bravery and skill and the wave's awesome power would appeal to my boys. My older boy declined to watch the video. He stayed downstairs to continue kicking the soccer ball. My younger son and I went to watch the videos of Laird Hamilton, best big wave surfer of all time. As we watched the video, I was describing to my son just how powerful and dangerous these waves were. I told him that while these waves are cresting the space created is so huge that an office building could fit inside. I told him a story of a surfer who was sucked under by one of these huge waves and shot underwater 500 meters by the force created. (There's nothing like a good Sports Illustrated article to engender the proper sense of wonder in an event). So, we watched in silence as this incredibly brave man surfed through this monstrous wave. After a time, I looked over my shoulder to see if my son was equally awed by what we were seeing. I turned more fully, to find my son in a perfect surfer's pose (we don't surf, but he looked like the guy we were watching). His legs were bent at the knees, his hamstrings flexing. He had his front arm extended as if trying to point toward the shore. His back arm was stretched behind him at an 120 degree angle, feeling for the wave just as Laird Hamilton was. His concentration was absolute. He was feeling this moment. He was riding the big wave. In our study, on the rug, in safety, he was surfing the biggest wave in the world. Once he was done with the wave, he looked at me. The expression in my boy's face could only be described as inspired ecstasy.
My wife has begun running recently, and yesterday, she had a 5K race. There was a 1K race for kids that was run just prior to the adults' race. My younger son did not feel like participating. He was probably a little overwhelmed by the hubbub. My older boy did run. And he ran really well. He was so inspired that he wants to run in a 5K that my wife is doing in November (many parents run 5Ks with their kids). "That was so awesome," he gushed to my wife as we drove home, "can we go on a run this afternoon?" Yes, occasionally enthusiasm can be exhausting, but the good outweighs the bad by far.
Sports-related enthusiasm is not the only sort that is in the air. My boys, due entirely to my wife's passion for it, are very enthusiastic gardeners. My younger boy, oddly, loves to participate in the growing of and eating, raw, of Swiss Chard. The truism different strokes for different folks applies to enthusiasm as well. On the topic of different strokes for different folks, my older boy LOVES going to our neighbor's house to help her pull weeds. She is an excellent gardener and often shares her spoils with us. Yesterday, my older boy said, in response to her suggestion that he pick some blueberries that she had grown, "but I feel so bad. We're always taking the stuff that you grow." "It's a pleasure," she said, "I love giving the fruit to you because you're always so enthusiastic!" Score yet another point for the virtues of enthusiasm.
Enthusiasm benefitted our house in another way, yesterday. My wife asked my boys and I what we wanted for dinner. She had run the 5K race earlier in the day, so I suggested that we make something easy. Both boys had a different opinion. "Make paella," they screamed in cheerful unison, "we love your paella. It's so good. So delicious. So wonderful. We need it. Please." At this, my younger son raised his pointer and middle fingers to his lips, kissed them, then sent off peace signs to display his approval/love of paella. He did this rapidly, sending out kissed peace-signs by the hundreds. Simultaneously, my older boy got up and joyfully, for lack of a better word, shook his booty. He danced his affirmation of the dinner choice. My wife, who had looked pretty tired beforehand, smiled and was given energy from the boys' reaction to her question. "Alright," she said, "we'll have paella."
In one weekend, enthusiasm's finger-prints were all over a super soccer experience, a joyful jogging experience, the getting of tasty berries from our neighbor, and a delicious paella for dinner. This weekend, enthusiasm resulted in positive outcomes. Sometimes, there might not be many positive outcomes to be found. Yet still, enthusiasm is of great use. One can skirt the treacherous depths of sadness, riding the positive energy of enthusiasm like a young big wave surfer pointing toward shore.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)