Freshman Football

My 14-year-old going out for Freshman Football in high school

“Son, how tall are you?” asked a high school coach during last spring’s middle school recruitment for freshman football players.

“Today or yesterday?” my son answered, grinning. At almost six foot three and 220 pounds, he stood out from the rest of the newly minted 14-year-olds. A size distinction he’s had since birth.

Ah yes, the memories.

“Mrs. Mansfield!” the nurse gushed. “You have a baby boy!” And here I was thinking I had just given birth to a VW bus. “Oh my,” The nurse continued. “I’ll have to get a longer measuring table. His feet are hanging off!”

Such began my son’s streak at not quite fitting in. At the age of four we enrolled him in T-ball. In spite of his height, all went well until we discovered his inability to grasp a bat. He’d swing and let it loose, sending it flying like a scud missile toward the other players on the team. They cowered in fear every time he batted. What my son had in strength he lacked in coordination. His running style mimicked that of an injured albatross flopping between bases. He was easy pickings for an out. T-ball left him sad.

“Don’t worry, honey,” I soothed. “Your time will come.”

Biddy Basketball was equally challenging.  But like T-ball, his coordination was lacking. When he tried to shoot a basket, the ball flew anywhere but the basket. The kids laughed as he flopped his way across the gym to retrieve the ball. We ended the season moody and teary.

“Don’t worry,” I soothed. “Your time will come.”

As the years passed, my son was nothing less than a bull in a china shop.

Second grade teacher: “What is wrong with that child? He can’t walk five feet without knocking over desks and flipping chairs!”

Joey, his neighborhood friend: “I don’t wanna play hide-and-seek with you. You don’t fit behind the bushes and you get us out every time!”

Grandparent: “I asked him to dig a little hole for my rose bush and he broke the water line for house!”

Father: “What do you mean you broke your box spring by sitting down on the bed?”

With each passing incident, I’d hug him and say, “Don’t worry, your time will come.”

Maybe freshman football will be different. The boys spend three days a week in the weight room for conditioning, and then two evenings a week practicing moves on the field. His first days in the weight room left him sore and cranky. My husband was concerned.

“You know,” he said to me, privately. “He has a bad track record at sports. Maybe we should encourage him to do something else.”

“Like what, ballet? It is what it is,” I said.

Then, the first practice on the field took place. I waited anxiously at home, cooking his favorite macaroni and hot dogs. I knew the ‘don’t worry’ speech by heart. I sighed as I heard him come through the door. But this time there were no tears and no frowns. He was smiling!

“Mom! Guess what? I can stop guys from advancing on the front line!” he announced, proudly. He demonstrated moves taught by coach. Evidently his skill set of knocking things over and breaking things work well in football. “Coach says I need to eat lots of protein, so ditch the mac and cheese and thaw me a steak!”

So, my son finally fits in. He found a place where running like an injured albatross didn’t matter as long as he can throw human beings around like toys. The next evening before he left for practice, I hugged him tight. “Please don’t get hurt,” I said.

“Aw mom, don’t worry,” he said. “You said my time would come and it did.” He winked and bolted out the door, slamming it into the wall.

I can only hope the other players have major medical.

 

 

Author's Note

Any feedback appreciated. Does it make you smile/laugh?