You should see her move.
She plays soccer like has an invisible rubber band tethered
to the ball and the other tied around her foot. With a sharp kick she sets its
free, sending it careening down the field. But suddenly it’s on her toes again
and she’s weaving in and out of defenders who lash out in an attempt to knock
her off the ball.
And, unbelievably, this is my kid.
I’ve never been athletically gifted. In high school I ended
up playing more sports then I should have because I was freakishly tall.
I made the basketball team despite my inability on the court
to do…well anything. The thinking was that occasionally our all-star center
would need a break and that I’d be a good replacement, because the law of
averages would dictate that once or twice an errant ball would clang off the
backboard and careen into my hands.
When I played soccer for a couple years as a kid the coaches
learned pretty fast to stick me in net, where I was likely to cause the least
amount of damage.
I was as uninterested in soccer as I was unskilled, and for
years family members dined out on stories of me wool gathering in the net while
the play carried on around me.
Sports weren’t my thing.
But my daughter? Oh man. You should see her mooooove.
When my wife and I first started talking about signing her up
for extracurriculars I suggested we do a team sport, conveniently forgetting
the lackluster performances from my own youth.
Unfortunately, in the beginning, she took after me. A lot.
While other kids joyfully waddled around like a penguin, learning
to tap the ball from foot to foot, she would walk sullenly around the field,
barely nudging the ball forward with her toe.
Disdaining to even be on the field with it.
“You can do it sweetie,” my wife shouted encouragingly. Then to
me she would add softly, “Maybe we should think about something else.”
“Let’s just stick with it for a bit,” I replied, avoiding the
withering gaze directed my way from the pitch. “No kid enjoys learning
something for the first time.”
Every
practice was an ordeal, a mixture of bribery, pleading, and strong arming just
to get her into the car. We were horrible parents. We were awful parents.
Didn’t we understand that she didn’t want to do this?
But the next summer we dutifully signed her up for soccer again.
It was important to see this through, we told each other. It was important to give
the thing a serious try before we made up our minds to abandon it.
Only this time around it was about more than just learning
the basics of the sport. It was about playing games.
And it was like someone had flipped a switch in her head.
This
was a competition. She thrived on competition.
Suddenly
the sullen little girl who had to be coerced and bribed to put on her shin pads
every week was replaced by a plucky little fighter dutifully firing the soccer
ball into the back of the pop up net.
It was amazing to watch and it was as far from own experience
with the sport as it was possible to get.
Soccer night instantly became my favourite night of the week.
My heart would catch in my chest every time she touched the ball and then leap
into my throat whenever she shot it on the net.
There was a connection there that was absolutely foreign to
me. An easy grace that I’d never have come close to matching at any point in my
own childhood.
My dad came to watch her play one day.
“I wonder where she gets it from,” he said, looking pointedly
at me. “It certainly can’t be genetic.”
(I’m not going to lie,
I get a chill every time a parent from the other team groans when she touches
the ball.)
“Oh great, the blond one has it again!”
At the start of every season I’d wait for the other kids to
catch up. For my daughter to lose her advantage as the law of averages has its say.
And it hasn’t happened yet.
I’ve never had dreams of sporting glory. Too much work. I’d
much rather lose an afternoon to a book or a good movie rather than chase a
ball down the field.
But I can’t adequately describe the feeling of satisfaction I
get seeing her in motion. In knowing that she’s lucky enough to have found a ‘thing’
that speaks to her, that gives her confidence and helps set her up success down
the road.
That composure and self-assurance can be fleeting sensations
at any point in your life. And as an adult I can think of occasions, when I was
growing up, when a little more confidence would have been a welcome addition to
my arsenal.
At times, I’ve struggled with determining where the ‘line’
is. Am I encouraging her to be her best, to find the upper limits of her
ability? Or am I pushing too hard?
Doing something well can be its own form of gratification,
but how do you teach a child the value of practice and dedication, of developing
your skill without ruining it in the process?
When does the pursuit of getting better at the ‘thing’ come
at the expense of your enjoyment of it?
*Shrugs*
When I know the answer, I’ll tell you.
Right now, I’m just happy to watch her play. To help her see
just how high up that mountain she can climb. And if one day she turns to me
and says “Daddy, I don’t want to play soccer anymore,” well then that’s okay.
Because she’s given it more than a fair shake. She’s take
every last ounce of joy she can get from the sport and then some. And if it
ever stops being fun for her, well, then it stops being fun for me too.
Watching someone else exercise their talent, being their truest self, well, that’s a gift
all on its own.
You should see her move.
