Throw That One Kid Out There

Even if our efforts of attention seem for years to be producing no result, one day a light that is in exact proportion to them will flood the soul. - Simone Weil in the Zen Calendar (August 23, 2006)

Day 72. Good ride tonight. I've got the data to prove it.

My son plays football. He has loved it since the age of four, when he proclaimed the Dallas Cowboys to be his favorite team. He spent his 10th birthday watching the Cowboys play from waaaay up in the cheap seats. Loved them through the rotten years. He played corner back in 6A football during high school. He never planned to play college ball because he is a realist and his coach was less than encouraging. Fall of 2009 was the first season in ten years he wasn't on the field. By October, he had decided to walk on to a college team.

So he did. He changed colleges over the semester break, and walked on to their team mid-year. Though it is a small private college, the athletes compete in Division One sports. My child is a skinny white kid. These are not positive attributes in collegiate football, though his extraordinarily high test scores make him a bit of a novelty. The first part of the semester was spent in grueling workout sessions where the goal was to gain an impossible amount of weight and muscle mass in the shortest amount of time. Following that endeavor Spring Practice awaits. It didn't take my genius child long to comprehend that a freshman walk-on at a Division One college is a commodity on a par with those heavy sleds that linemen push up and down the practice field. At least the sled travels in front of the linemen. They just step on the freshmen and keep on going.

My practice consists of 25 minutes on a sofa cushion and an hour tops tapping on a keyboard. My son's practices are three to five hour massacres in which he is pummeled, trampled, tackled, hit, smashed, and yelled at. This is accompanied by lengthy meetings during which players are bombarded with the intricacies of a defense that in no way resembles the defense of high school ball. Somewhere in the midst of the 30+ hours devoted to football, they are supposed to go to class and remain upright in their seats.

Most nineteen-year-olds have fairly volatile moods. Remember - their brains aren't cooked. Depending on which nanosecond I talked to him, my son was either euphoric over a good play or a coach actually knowing his name, or anguishing over his insane decision to try and walk on. Academics faded into the twilight of his consciousness, though he attempted to study through a haze of ice packs and Alleve. He never skipped a workout. Never missed a practice or was late for a meeting. Spring practice dragged on.

At 11:30 last night, my son texted me this message, "You'd better be awake." I texted that I was. He called me and said excitedly that the varsity spur (a safety position that he was being considered for) was injured early in scrimmage. The safety coach looked around and asked the head coach, "What do you want me to do at spur?" The head coach dismissively answered, "Throw that one kid out there." My son had caught the coach's attention a few times earlier in the spring with a couple of picks and a ridiculously strong work ethic. The safety coach said my son's name, and the head coach said, "Yeah."

For 24, five-minute periods, my son was on the field with the "one's" - i.e. the varsity players. He knows that he is totally expendable. He knows he is on a par with the practice sleds. He knows scholarship athletes are the real assets and must be treated as such. He suspects the varsity player will be back in a day or so. Didn't matter. He played with heart and guts and iron bending determination the entire time. During an era when most athletes readily admit they play for a championship ring, a presence on the newest NCAA XBOX game, and the probability of making millions in the NFL, my son gave his all while getting hammered and beat up in a scrimmage. The safety coach approached him when practice was over, acknowledging his dedication and hard work while reminding him, "You know we have to give the recruits a first look." My son replied, "I know, coach. I understand."

I emotionally relayed this conversation with my son to my partner, expressing how touched and proud I was of this man-child I had raised. In a caricature of male bravado, he replied, "That's how football is." I know that's how football is. I was a sports psychologist at a Pac 10 school for Chrissakes. But I am the MOM of this particular football player, and he is precious to me. His attitude echoes of bygone values and rare splendor. I love him from the depths of my soul.

I usually practice breathing through intense emotion, but tonight I'll just weep. Shine on, Number 29. One day a light that is in exact proportion to your effort will flood you soul. And I'll be in the bleachers.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc