The Check is in the "Male!"

What is it about youth sports that seems to turn otherwise fairly normal mothers into maniacal lunatics, jumping up and down in the stands and screaming at little Johnny to go faster, try harder, win, win, WIN?  I always regarded those women with disgust.  Until I became one. 

It was a gradual progression.  But I think it may have started at an end of a season soccer party.  Jeff was in the third grade and reluctantly playing soccer.  We had forced him to sign up for a sport, believing that teamwork and the lessons taught on the field were a valuable passage of youth.  Jeff chose soccer because he liked the striped socks.

  It’s not that Jeff was bad at soccer, he just was too nice.  During one game he accidentally knocked down an opposing player and stole the ball.  He felt so badly, that he stopped and helped the other player to his feet.  Obviously, he lost control of the ball and the other team ended up scoring a goal.  My husband and I sat on the sidelines sinking low into our chairs.  Jeff grinned and called out, “It’s okay Mom, he’s all right!”

I suppose that as a mother, I should be proud that my son was so caring towards others.  But at that moment I started to secretly wish that he was just a little more competitive.  When the season ended, we celebrated our last place standing with a friendly ‘Parent’s Game.’  The kids were on one team, the parents on another.  I had never played soccer in my life, but it didn’t take me long to catch on.  In a short time, I was racing up the field laughing evilly, kicking the ball and pushing little kids out of my way.  In one remarkable play, I intercepted a great pass and turned around to head towards the goal.  It was at that moment that little Jeffrey decided to try and save the day by playing defense on his mom.  As I turned around, my right elbow connected with Jeff’s forehead and sent him flying.  I eventually looked back at him, after I finished doing my victory dance between the goalposts.  Jeff was flat on his back with one nasty looking goose-egg sized lump between his already turning-black-eyes. 

The poor kid had purple eyes for a week.  I also had to deliver a lecture to him about how it was important to include the words, “during a soccer game” when answering inquires about his black eyes.  And that just saying, “My Mom hit me.” Was not an acceptable nor terribly accurate explanation.

Thankfully Jeff gave up the sport of soccer, and I didn’t have to face the disapproving glares of those judgmental mothers.  For crying out loud, it was a couple of black eyes, it’s not like I broke any bones.  You think they’d be a little more forgiving.  In any event, Jeff found a sport that was a better match for his individualistic style; fencing.   It’s a fascinating display of strategy and grace.  I love to watch the flashing swords.  Jeff is quite good, although I don’t get to watch him compete very often.  Apparently loud cheering is considered bad form in fencing. 

Thankfully my youngest son competes in a sport where loud obnoxious cheering is not only allowed, it is revered and admired.  Patrick plays hockey.  I absolutely love the sport of hockey.  What is not to like?  Guys with sharpened blades on their shoes chase each other with sticks, and if they run into someone on purpose, they are applauded and cheered!  That’s what I call a real sport!  Every season I paint my face in Pat’s team colors, wear his old jersey’s and scream in the stands until I’m hoarse.  Pat say’s kids in the halls at his school recognize him from my legendary enthusiastic cheering.

But last season is when I realized that as a mother fan, I had truly advanced to a new level.  Patrick had moved up an age division and was playing against kids who were a good foot taller than him.  Feeling a little insecure about his size, Pat had stopped ‘checking’ opposing players.  Checking in hockey is when a player purposely runs into an opposing player in an effort to steal away the puck.  It’s the best part of the whole game. 

I tried everything to get Patrick hitting again.  I encouraged him.  I reminded him how strong he was.  I suggested that he picture his brother’s face as he headed towards an opposing player.  But nothing seemed to work.  Finally, during the end-of-the-season tournament I quietly took Patrick aside.  Laying a hand on each shoulder and looking into the eyes of my youngest child, I sighed and gently said, “Son, if you will check a player this game, and I mean really check him clean and hard, there is twenty bucks in it for you.”   Something right then clicked for Patrick.  Perhaps it was the parental love that clearly dripped from my counsel.  Or perhaps it was an entire season of my endless supportive cheering.  But when Pat went out onto that ice, bodies went flying.  By the end of the first period we were ahead by two goals and Pat had made a clean sixty bucks. 

Sometimes being a mom is a tough and thankless job.  But when you see your son smash into another twelve-year-old kid and knock both his feet out from under him.  You can’t help but smile and say, “That is my boy!”