Gramma goes to soccer camp

I went to soccer camp a couple of times last week – a first for me. I carefully packed my equipment for the early morning start; lawn chair, travel mug of coffee, sunscreen. I parked myself on my designated side of the fence and ushered my miniature player through the gate. I was pooped before the drills began.

I have no experience being soccer mom but if this little girl falls in love with the sport I will definitely be a pro at soccer-grammaing.  I’ve already learned that I’m a cheerleading linguist – I needed no lessons in soccer-eeze – it turns out action verbs translate to all sports.

One of the best parts about being a grandmother a new take on competitiveness, the years have mellowed me. I have learned that a five year old doesn’t have to be a virtuoso to be successful and that butterflies can hold as much allure as soccer balls in the midst of a game.

I fear I put a lot of pressure on my own children to stay focused on the task at hand when they were young. There was no time for snowballs on a ski slope, no leeway for chopsticks while practicing piano. I was a tough mother. That’s not to say we didn’t have fun – we did, but only on breaks. Business was business.

This particular granddaughter is quite a character (actually they all are, in their individual ways). She is less inclined to follow the rules – she has the confidence to stand out from the crowd. She has all the components of a rock star soccer player – the build, the ability, the right equipment and legions of enthusiastic fans. And she is five years old – which is both a blessing and a curse. She is young enough to get ahead in the game – if she can pay attention. And that is a coin toss.

She had a ton of fun at the camp, she made new friends and stood out from the crowd. I’ve learned to let coachs teach the game.  That’s not to say I didn’t fight the urge to yell “get back in the game!” when she sat down in the net and started to pick at the artificial turf – or, “kick the ball!” when she picked it up and ran to in front of the net to boot in an illegal goal. I’m a work in progress too. Biting my tongue is still an effort from time to time, but I’m trying. We both learned a lot at soccer camp.

Childhood is fleeting – there are many years ahead when she will have to follow the rules, pay attention and get down to business. The first rule of soccer camp for 5 year olds is to have fun — she aced that part.

Some days I feel like I went to bed one night an exhausted mother and woke up the next morning a grandmother. These little granddaughters are bringing back waves of nostalgia- I can see clearly, in each of them, the little kids their parents used to be – it makes my heart soar and ache in the same beat.

The little character kicking the soccer ball last week is much like the character her father used to be – I used to write about his shenanigans too.

Moms, sons and baseball.        (BC Parent Magazine April 1997)

We’ve all had shoes that fit like a glove but I recently learned of a glove that fit like a shoe — a well-worn sneaker to be exact. I was en route to a little league baseball game when my son blurted out that the tattered and dusty mitt he clutched fit him like a shoe.

He lovingly displayed the hunk of leather in a beam of sunlight filtering through the bug-smeared windshield of our family car. Turning it and pointing out the finer qualities of a well broken-in glove he reminisced about caught flies and bouncing grounders. Tenderly stroking the twisted lacing he indicated the spot where a wild throw had almost broken through the webbing. He rubbed the fading pocket with 14 year old fingers, thoughtfully tracing victories and defeats like he was reading a history text in Braille. Affection glowed on his face — he loves his baseball glove.

An adolescent male child is a wonder to behold. Packaged into a gangly body, raging emotion surges forward unbridled; joy, anger and fear mix themselves together in explosive eruptions. I view him with awe, yet a little sadly too. Manhood approaches and the little boy I know as my son must mold himself to fit the bill.

Fantastic youthful dreams, once the topic of backyard play, are now merely whispered in confidence when we are alone, lest they be mocked by some macho peer. Being his mother I know that when he takes his turn at bat (the score a gripping three to two for the other team) he is imagining himself in the bottom of the ninth in the last game of the World Series. His life depends on whether or not he gets on base – the future of baseball lies in his hands. The same boy who plants a big smooch on the top of his dog’s head before hitting the hay at night faces the pitcher with the intensity of a major leaguer. He is a walking contradiction – a tough mush.

This is perhaps the stage of parenting when mothers develop a closeness to their sons, catching glimpses of fleeting youth. While some fathers wait for character to gel and cringe when childish antics surface, mothers nurture and cling to the disappearing little boy. Once the frayed threads of emotions mature his passion won’t be spent on worn-out gloves and baseball games, nor will it be the dog who gets kissed good night.