A Double Does of Bad Timing
I have to be honest: I was never the greatest athlete. That is an unavoidable truth that applies to both today and the entirety of my childhood, yet one that I accept. Though I had a few moments to shine, I was always one of the smallest and youngest kids in my class, and athletics simply were never my strongest area.
That being said, I was always a good team player and tried to lead by example in practicing good sportsmanship at all times. And, looking back, I can see that I got a lot out of being a young athlete because I was never afraid to try my hardest. The main reason for this is probably because I always had so much support from my parents.
No matter what, I could always count on my parents to be there watching me. As an only child, I never had to fight for any attention from siblings. From my first tee-ball games at 3 years old, my parents were always there to cheer me on, whether it was soccer, basketball, or baseball, in which my Dad was one of my coaches and my Mom was the team manager. They always supported me to the fullest, and even though my Dad could sometimes be a tad hard on me to practice or improve at times I might not have wanted to myself, it was always for my own good and never egregious by any means. I know I could always count on them. To have either one of them miss a game was a definite rarity. And to have both of them miss a game was unthinkable.
But for one fateful second grade soccer game, the unthinkable happened. Now when I say unthinkable, I mean in two ways. First of all, as I just mentioned, neither of my parents could make it to this game. My Dad’s father, my Pop-Pop, had recently died, and my parents had to go through his belongings with my Dad’s other siblings all day that Saturday.
The second unthinkable notion though, was the fact that on this day, this one beautiful Spring day, I had one of the greatest days of my athletic career. The grass was green, the sun was shining, and the sky was perfectly clear. My cleats were laced, my shin guards in place, and I’d had my fill of lime green Gatorade. Somehow, everything aligned perfectly for this to be my day. I was never the best soccer player, but I was always pretty scrappy when I played and one of the quickest kids at that age, so though I was never bad at the game, I just didn’t have a lot of looks at the true glory: scoring the goals. That day, though, the game had hardly started when an opponent was coming at me with the ball, but I decided he wasn’t getting past me. I stole the ball from him, scurried up the field and towards the goal, and let it rip. GOAL! I couldn’t believe it, and I don’t think a few of my oldest pals did either given the way we were celebrating.
As the game went on, I remember vividly just having an amazing game. Numerous steals of the ball. Running quickly around the field. And I even had an assist or two to my friends for goals of their own. It felt like if there was any scoring action to be had, I was in on it in some way or another. Towards the end of the game, one of the best athletes and guys I’ve ever known, Ian MacInnes, was taking the ball up the field, and I was running just behind him to his right. Instead of taking the shot, which I feel he might have made, he passed the ball back to me. Not questioning his decision or wanting to waste the element of surprise, I let it rip again. ANOTHER GOAL!! It was one thing to have one goal, but two?! That was quite possibly the best soccer game I ever played.
But even though I scored two goals, unfortunately two great parents had to miss out. Now let me be clear, I never for a second held it against my parents that they couldn’t be there. That’s the twist on this story. I always knew I had their love and support, and even though I would’ve loved for them to be there, since I was never the greatest athlete to begin with, sports were never such a big deal to me that I could have hated my parents forever over two second grade goals. And I tried to tell them that, but I don’t think it was enough for them.
Sure, as a second grade kid, I probably didn’t explain it to them in such a mature way even if that was the truth, and in fact, I probably ran up and excitedly told them every last detail of the game as soon as I could after hopping out of whichever friend’s minivan that dropped me off and saw them sifting through boxes in our garage with my Aunt Laura.
But I could immediately see by the looks on their faces as soon as I finished my story that a mere play by play, even one that was probably dramatized to the point of caricature, was simply not enough for them. My Mom looked like a mix between being about to cry and about to burn my house down. And My Dad had an unmistakable sadness and anger at himself on his face as well. Considering what he was doing that day, after only recently losing his own Dad, I bet it was extra hard on him that he wasn’t there, both because his own Dad couldn’t make it to a lot of his own games as a kid, and because since his Dad was now gone, I think he wanted even more to be there for me always.
Immediately, I let them know that I forgave them, that it was alright they missed my two goals. I promised them I’d score more. For them, though, I don’t think they ever completely forgave themselves for missing the game. In fact, they probably never saw a game where I scored multiple goals after that. But looking back now, it still doesn’t matter. As vividly as I remember the game when Ronnie Bethke turned into Ronaldhino or Cristiano Ronaldo, I remember their upset faces even more vividly.
As upset as my parents were that they missed my two goals, I know now that the love behind that regret means more than every goal I ever scored combined. Through that moment, I learned more than ever how much my parents loved me and what kind of parent I hope to be one day.
And when it comes to my childhood sports experience, I may have never been good enough to make it to the big leagues, but I learned a lot about myself and who I wanted to be, and I think that’s more important than anything.
