There is hope after all…

With the devastation taking its toll on the residents of Texas, it is heartwarming and downright encouraging to see the real soul of humanity being exposed for the world  to see. Raw and unembellished stories of people risking their lives helping others without a moment’s hesitation, forming human chains to rescue a stranded driver of a stalled hurricane_harvey_gi-800x445vehicle or an animal caught in a swirling current, steering their fishing boats and checking houses one at a time. The rain, dumping buckets of water, washed away homes, cars, enveloped major highways and buildings. But the rain washed away something more. In the midst of this deluge, the rain washed away color, ethnicity, religion and thankfully, division. Without fanfare, unsung heroes and heroines jumped into action to help their community. Why does it seem to take a catastrophic event to bring a halt to the division and bring back the best of human nature again?

I believe I found my answer one afternoon at my son’s swim meet.

I like to think my son is athletic…not the football, muscle bound type but rather the lean, running type. He’s always been involved with one sport or another but usually when he felt the urge. Long ago, as a tadpole, he loved swimming but that particular urge had faded nearly five years ago. So, when he decided to join the high school swim team his senior year, the announcement left his father and I scratching our collective heads. My son is no Michael Phelps…far, far FAR from it. But his exuberance was so contagious, we kept our opinions to ourselves, shrugged our shoulders and went along for the ride.

swim meet

Yesterday, he and his team competed against another local high school. As far as crowds go, a fair number of parents, friends, siblings and visitors gathered to watch their diversified team despite a threatening thunderstorm which failed to materialize. A nice cloud cover provided a respite from the sun and the meet began.  I snagged a chair with a bird’s eye view near one end of the pool, took out my tablet to pass the time while waiting for my son’s events.

If you have personally ever watched a swim meet, the first thing you realize as a parent is this. Once they put on the swim cap and goggles, it’s very hard to identify your child. Secondly, once they hit the water, it becomes damn near impossible. Thirdly, unless your child is a super, superstar, it’s kind of like watching paint dry…no offense intended.

Since I hadn’t spied my son on deck, I took an interest in the ongoing relay taking place in front of me, hoping I hadn’t missed his leg of the race. Being a relay, there were four team members ateam swimmingnd although they had already called the winner, everyone was waiting for the last straggling swimmer to complete his leg. Out of the four or five lanes, he was the only one remaining in the pool.

I can’t think of anything more agonizing…knowing the race is over and you have two laps left to finish. There’s just you…silently struggling to keep your mind on the task at hand, battling the fatigue and numbness overtaking your limbs, your arms now slapping the surface instead of slicing through the water. Coming up for breath, your throat burns as your lungs strive to suck in as much as air as possible, your legs slowly losing the will to kick and fighting the discouraging knowledge everyone is watching you.

As this young man struggled to reach my end of the pool, I could hear him gasping for breath as he paused before turning for his final lap…seemingly a mile away. He was a strapping fellow, broad shouldered and strong but this particular event was kicking his butt. I remember thinking, “He’s not going to make it. He’s completely exhausted.”

Then a surprising thing happened. Everyone rose to their feet, approached the edge of the pool and began shouting, encouraging him, loud and strong. The separation of team colors melted away as they came together to yell their support, willing him to find that last ounce of reserve to make it to the finish line. The sound was almost deafening.

Three races later, the same thing happened happened again. The race had been called leaving one lone swimmer to complete his last long leg by himself. Everyone, including me, rose up again to shout words of encouragement and cheer him to the finish line. They continued to applaud as his two of his friends, including my son, pulled him out of the pool when he touched the wall, his legs unable to summlone swimmeron the strength. It didn’t matter what school they represented, what religion they observed, the color of their skin or where their family came from. They were simply young swimmers doing what they loved.

And there is was…a golden nugget of evidence that all is not lost. That the thread of unity and love for our fellow man does exist in everyday circumstances. It’s there and it’s something we need to hold on to.

In the universal scheme of things, this meet will soon fade into the memory banks of most of the parents, swim coaches and team mates. Then again, maybe not. I know for certain there are at least three people who will cherish this event: those two swimmers who will forever remember the cheers, encouragement and vocal support urging them not to give up at a point in time when they probably felt most alone.

And me…who was lucky enough to witness something so very special first hand and write about it.

 

 

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Parenthood = Roller Coaster

From the moment they are placed in your arms, you are overwhelmed with this immense sense of responsibility. They capture your heart when you hear the first flutter of a heartbeat and the love continues to grow. And although you would never in a million years volunteer for the “Rip Ride Rockit” at Universal Studios, you have unwittingly signed up for a lifetime front row seat to the roller coaster that is parenthood.

From the moment they take their first step, you would do anything to shield them from hurt. You know they are going to stub a toe, fall off their bicycle or skin their knee and your heart aches. That’s just the beginning. Next there is the first trip to the Principal’s office, being omitted from a birthday party or worse, not being picked for the sport’s team and you haven’t even left the single digit age bracket yet.

After this stage, we watch as they move to new schools, filled with the angst of making new friends and the navigating the social pecking order. You witness the first crush and the first breakup. During this time, you heart sinks right along with their own, although by now your support is mostly silent…after all, they are teenagers and “they do know everything.” Are we done yet? Not even close.

We feel their pain wishing with every ounce of our being we could take away the sting, knowing full well these are milestones they must experience just as we did. Knowing this fact does not make it any easier. The challenges are bigger, the stakes are higher and a simple kiss can’t make the booboos go away.

Today, I unknowingly took my reserved front row seat on that exhaustive roller coaster. My son loves tennis. I’m not quite sure he understands the sacrifices required to become as good as he wants; only time will tell, but he has stepped up his game in the past few weeks. The next stage will involve competition…at least two tournaments per month, plus setting time aside to practice serving and using the ball machine for consistency. It is during tournament play where the rubber meets the road. Previous matches have not always resulted in a win which is a difficult concept difficult to grasp. This morning yielded the same result—a complete, unequivocal defeat. Needless to say, our young son exited the match disappointed with his performance, feeling completely talentless, stating he should quit but wanting a reason to continue. Unfortunately during times such as these, a parent’s words of encouragement just don’t seem enough. I gave him the same pep talk and pointed out things he might have done differently when I realized he’d crumbled into an emotional heap in the car seat beside me. Truth be told, these teenagers, for all their bravado, are still children.

We sat in the parking lot of Publix and for the first time, I kept my mouth shut; a first for me, unfortunately. I just let him vent, cry, and pour out his frustration. When he was done, we didn’t talk about it and just went to lunch. As luck would have it, next to our table sat a woman with her two sons. The oldest, probably 8, was having a full blown meltdown, albeit quietly while his younger brother, about 5, looked on. After things had calmed down a bit, the mother stood up to get the food and the napkins. It was during this time the younger brother said something to his older brother. Although we were watching, neither of us could make out the words, however, it became clear within seconds whatever it was displeased the older brother immensely. He gave his brother a deathly glare that could only be described as the most incredible “unibrow stinkeye” we had ever seen, again and again. We broke up laughing.

I don’t exactly know what happened to my son during those hours between matches. What I do know is when he walked out on the court later that afternoon, he was different. He carried his head high, walked with purpose and carried a positivWait for ite attitude ready to listen to the little voices of his coaches he carries in his head. Without fanfare or hullabaloo my son had grown up on his own…he had turned the lemons from the morning into afternoon lemonade. Every time he looked at me during the match, he gave me a confident nod. Gone were the outbursts of exasperation and the barely audible swear words. When he walked off the court after losing 6-2, 6-4, he proudly told me, “I think that’s the best I’ve ever played.”

I couldn’t agree more.

The Angst of Immaturity

My husband and I are at the stage where we watch our son in awe…..most of the time. Oh there’s the ups and downs of immaturity and the  aggravaSpencer,Alex,Chasetion thereof but yesterday was different.

Our son took to tennis like a duck takes to water about four years ago. Since then, he and his friends have taken lesson after lesson, clinic after clinic. When the summer temperatures rose to uncomfortable levels in the high eighties, most of the participants scrambled to the swimming pool. This group, however,  headed back out to the courts for another couple of hours of grinding a little yellow ball. I admire tenacity and determination. To have a goal and set out to at least try to achieve it, is a worthy aspiration. On the practical and pragmatic side, however, there is a harsh reality one must eventually address whether the goal is in athletics or academics. It is easy for a young dreamer to announce the desire to play in Wimbledon or perform with the New York City Ballet Company or simply compete in an Olympic event. It is quite another to fully comprehend the magnitude of the desire and knowing the cost, continue with the commitment no matter what results will yield. Yesterday, my son received a mere taste of what the future can hold.

High school athletics is rigorous, competitive and an invaluable experience. One year a particular high school will have attained notoriety in a specific sport only to return the next year barely hanging on to the bottom rung havtennis racquets.on.neting lost the bulk of the team to graduation. I can only liken the rise and fall of any high school’s athletic division to the undulating tides of the ocean – sometimes high, sometimes low. My son chose a high school closer to our home and in doing so, wound up on one of those high school tennis teams climbing up from the bottom rung. There were probably 5 students on the team and only 2 had participated in any formal training, one being our son. For those unfamiliar with tennis  lingo, which I wasn’t, Court 1 is considered the best court, the dreaded arena often referred to as the court of annihilation one wants to avoid unless properly prepared. It would be like having a Freshman suited up to play quarterback facing a defensive line made up completely of experienced seniors. Kind of takes the stuffing out of you.

It didn’t take long for the lineup to be formulated. A great, lanky, and talented sophomore played Court 1 and my son, my tall, wonderfully goofy, freshman son moved to Court 2. In one fell swoop, he was thrown into the deep end.  The remaining team members fell into place thereafter. Now, this was just our high school. There were approximately six other high schools to compete against. A few were in the same category as ours; limited number of players with equally limited experience. Others were highly regarded with a deep roster, exceptional experience, mostly comprised of seniors and carefully cultivated to dominate the competition. They did so quite well. However, our little team became the thorn in their sides, at first surprising, then annoying. While my son’s high school team didn’t do well overall in the standings, both Court 1 and Court 2 weren’t easily overcome.

The season ended yesterday with District competitions, another level involving another set of high schools,  some familiar, some completely unknown. Without being aware of the fact, my son was pushing his commitment into an unknown arena. He was facing competitors of unknown ability in front of friends, parents and other attendees for the opportunity to achieve the same goal as every other high school tennis participant: the chance to play in the finals, a lofty goal for an incoming freshman.

His first match was long and deliberate, controlled and executed. The opponent was no slouch but eventually my son prevailed. Because of a pass, he went straight into the semi finals against a player, a senior, he’d come close to beating twice. My son was chomping at the bit, eagerly ready to play, certain he could win and move to the finals.  Previously, their matches had been neck and neck so the opposing team player was rather surprised when my son won the first set handily. I’m sorry to report that’s when things began to go south. This is where the difference in age, the difference in competitive experience and the ability to pull it all together or simply keep it mentally together, is affected by immaturity. When a few of my son’s shots went awry, his frustration grew. Instead of taking a few moments to gather his wits and take a few breaths, he launched immediately into the next point with the same results. It didn’t take long for his opponent to capitalize on my son’s growing self aggravation and win the second set. My heart broke for my son. He wanted the win so much he could taste it but the possibility was rapidly slipping away.  It was a journey to a lesson he had to take on his own. A simple hug or thumbs up wasn’t going to make everything better. As parents, we aren’t allowed to coach our children during match play. The only thing I could manage to tell him, handing him a bottle of water was, “Getting angry isn’t going to help your game.” not really believing the statement would help.

As he went back out on to the court, however, a new young man emerged. I can’t readily confess he was no longer frustrated but for the first time, he took charge and began playing with his brain again. For the next ten minutes, emotion did not control his game and I saw a glimpse of the young man he is trying to become. When the tie breaker ended, he was the first man to the net to congratulate the winner. I couldn’t have been more proud. I’m not sure angst is the proper word to describe what teens go through but I’m fairly certain it’s the perfect word to describe what parents of teens go through.

Well done, son. Well done.