As mentioned yesterday in a Facebook post, last night was the final game that I’ll watch any child of mine play in at the youth level before entering high school.
Of course I’d still consider high school sports as youth sports – but at a much more demanding level. The innocence is virtually tucked away in a locker or duffel bag of stinky items.
Mom and Dad are no longer carrying water bottles out to the field if they run out of fluids by halftime. They are not being coached by a family friend who you’ve looked to for guidance since kindergarten.
The coaches are now paid to win. The coaches care about wins first and the emotional needs of your child somewhere further down the list. That’s not to say they don’t care about our kids. The good ones do. But you probably won’t be hanging out at Coach Frank’s wife’s birthday party/picnic talking about how far your kid has come along and how he’ll be given a chance to play that position he’s been asking about all season.
It’s part of the maturation process that they must go through entering into the next level. And it makes you realize that time is pulling you by both arms and even the legs that pedaled you 30 miles on your bike yesterday can’t slow it down by much.
What makes this even worse is that this boy of mine is the last of five passing through this house on his way to figuring out how to get the heck out. So in four years – my job that began as a nineteen-year-old will change drastically.
Sure I have a granddaughter, and a grandson on the way. But it’s not the same. No more being in charge of screwing lives up of those living under my jurisdiction.
Yes, yes, yes, I know – I’m still four years from that time and maybe even more depending on how much he grows to hate us between now and then.
Jeez, now that I think about it more, what the heck will I have to write about then? It’ll have to be about the grandchildren and whatever dopey little kids I encounter while chasing them around.
I say “dopey” as I would use “silly” or “funny” although it does seem a little harsh now that I read it back. But “dopey” can be cute up until a certain age I guess.
The Boy has a dopey friend which is why it came to mind. He never caught on that we thought he was “dopey.” The problem is he’s STILL dopey to this day!
Oh I wish I could share some of what got him labeled in the first place. I won’t though. At least not now. But I swear if this kid is still a dope at 18 – I’m going to warn all of you.
I’ve strayed far away from my original topic. I could very well be avoiding the inevitable which eventually leads to 20-30 years down the road and my own death (if I even make it that long).
Well, at least this gem of a blog entry will be here for the grandkids to read and realize what a dope they had for a grandfather.
The bad news for all of my children and grandchildren is that I can’t keep my dopey thoughts in my head.