Playing Like A Man

My son Alexander is playing youth football this year. Although he has participated in basketball and flag football several times already, this is the first time he has had to face up to the rough, cruel world of tackle football.

For those of you not overly familiar with this American sport, the game exists seemingly for the brutal and terrifying purpose of seperating men's heads from their bodies. Despite helmets and padding, we are talking about athletes running at full speed into each other and trying to crush their opponants into the ground. The results can be painful and not just a little injurious.

So, cheerfully my Ex and I sent our eldest son into this meat grinder and said, "Have fun".

They played their sixth game last night and were crushed 38-0. This is a fitting bookend to the 53-6 spanking they got a month ago. The team is hard working but not nearly as large or talented as some of the others.

A wise man once said that parents feel the pain of a child's failure more deeply, more personally than the child himself. I was suffering humiliation for my boy. Their defeat was more than just a loss in the standings. They had been pushed around all evening far worse than the final score reflected. Memories of my own sports dreams, now dusty and fragile with age, mingled into nostalgic sympathy for my eldest. I thought of times I was mocked and derided by young men who were stronger or faster than me. I remembered being on the short end of some very lopsided scores. My heart yearned for Alex and wished that he would never feel the disappointment and yes shame of being overmanned in public. I hung my head, beaten in spirit.

When I looked up a few moments later to find my son, aching to hold him and comfort as only a loving Father can. To my surprise he was not with the rest of the team as slowly left the field in groups of two or three. No, my son was standing on the far side of the field, in the midst of the victorious Spartans, giving congratulations to the boy who had been his primary opponant the whole evening. From a hundred yards away I could imagine hearing Alex offer that boy praise for a job well done and meaning it truthfully.

As he strode across the field, all alone, I knew that Alex was in torment. He hates to lose worse than he hates Bonnet movies and eggs. No one else on his team made the traditional "good game" mutter to the Spartans. None of them tempted the fate of mockery by standing out from the crowd for good sportsmanship. But my boy did.

He left the field and clambored up the stands towards me. I noticed his eyes boring into my own, looking for that kindness and support that all boys need from their fathers. When he finally reached the top and stood before me, I took him into my arms and said, "I'm so proud of you son. You played well today. You did well!"

What I didn't tell him was, at that moment of truth when he could have sunk into the pit of misery and self-pity BUT DID NOT, that he was a better Man than I.

My son played football like a moderately talented guy who gives his all and is just plain overmatched. But in the game of Life, he showed that he has what it takes to be a Champion.