Watching Harrison, Too

I know you were expecting to read about the conclusion of Rachel's sports career, but I wanted to get something in here about my baby boy. I will be back to finish Rachel.

Swimming, for both kids, started at a private pool where my little boy sat on the edge, visibly shivering with teeth chattering, and a giant frown plastered on his sweet little face. With absolutely no body fat, floating didn't come easy, this I was well aware of.  It was years ago. that I was that thin, and I’ve had a TBI, but I remember that well. He absolutely despised water on his face, so the 1st thing he did when surfacing, even in the bath, was to wipe the water from his eyes with tight little fists.  And, staying warm was also an issue. So since the outdoor pool didn't seem like the place he'd learn to swim, the next summer we tried group lessons at the YMCA.

He made gains on the swimming front, and I met the cousin of a close, childhood friend. Her boy was in the class too, and she and I became close friends.  Our boys even took semi private lessons together.  As moms, we were sent upstairs, to watch the lesson from behind a large glass window. But, semi private meant one instructor with our two small boys, so we were more relaxed than when there had been a group of wigglers.

One day the instructor had a cold, and was not actually in the water with the boys.  Up until then, she had been, and we had become very comfortable behind our window. We were chatting away, when I looked down to the pool, and saw the swimmers were close to where their feet did not touch the bottom of the pool. My new friend was Patti, and her son was sent to swim the width of the pool, which he did.  And then it was Harrison’s turn, but I knew he wouldn't make it across, just yet.  I was afraid he'd panic, not being able to touch the bottom.  But I was behind a window, far above the pool, and even though I wanted to yell Hey, he won't be able to do that...yet!!!  No one at pool level would hear me.  As Harrison went under, the instructor appeared to yell something. Maybe along the lines of, don’t drown on my watch!  He did surface, and he caught the floaty she threw to him.  Why this episode didn’t deter him, I’m not sure, but as long as James would be at swim lessons, he would too.

He and James kept at it, and by the end of the semi privates, he was fairly safe, and was even enjoying, at least, playing in the water. He had spent 2 summers in lessons, and I had seen enough to know that he took after me, when it came to water; I liked being in it, but was never actually a swimmer.

His next sporting adventure, also at the YMCA, was when he learned the game of basketball.  Before the school bus came remember each morning, we would shoot hoops in our drive way.  But then we had a huge wind storm, and even though the standard's base was filled with water, it didn't make it.  Our morning practice sessions ended when the heavy standard was blown over and the glass back board shattered.

Harrison tried soccer too.  We thought after 2 years of watching his sister, he needed his own chance. The 1st coach he had was the father of an experienced soccer player who was, you guessed it, a member of the team. They had come to our tiny town up by the border from a big city in California, and the dad did a great job - show casing his son that is.  But he would yell at the other little boys the entire game. He would shout vehemently to go right (or left)!!! Or Stay right (or left)!!! They were still at the age where kids still wrested with the directions right, and left.

He told the kids to stay where he put them (he quickly gave up position names) and at their age, they did just that, checking out the bugs on the field, and the clouds in the sky.  They were good listeners, and didn't move from that spot, as long as they were entertained.  Needless to say, my little man wasn't sure he'd ever play soccer again.  The next year I cajoled a dad, Jerry, into coaching the team.  He was the single parent father of my son's good friend, Chas, who convinced Harrison to play too.  See, there was method to my madness.  Harrison got excited to play the game he had only watched, and with Chas! Chas’ dad agreed to coach, only if I helped out, though.

I’m glad Jerry left the paper work and phone calling to me, and took on the actual coaching himself.  I guess he realized a disabled mom who had never played soccer, could only do so much.  But because I had watched a lot of soccer, and had an athletic background, I did a pretty good job of faking it on the side lines.  The season flew by and everyone had a heckuva time, which should be the focus of all youth sports, right?

After soccer Jerry got the notion to put together an AAU basketball team to compete in the big city of Bellingham, and other towns around ours.  Harrison, of course, was on the team.  Now, remember the boys were still young, and every game seemed to include a fallen player, whose piercing cries let everyone in the gym know that some catastrophic injury has been incurred. But soon the dropped Harrison got up, and skipped back into play.  My son’s dad called it The Crying League. 

Jerry’s team did indeed have fun, and at the last game, of the last tournament, all the player’s moms were cheering for Harrison to make a basket, which he did.  At least that’s how I remember it, but I am a proud mom who has had a head injury, so who knows how it actually ended.

The last memory I have regarding my sweet boy and basketball, was after our move to Boise.  He won the Ugliest Shoes award at basketball camp. I was particularly proud because he had picked them out himself.  I had tried to discourage him, but he liked that they were unattractive ( actually just a real weird color.)  

We still have baseball, football, and track to cover.  Stay tuned.

Still Watching

Where were we?  This is where I might get confused because Rachel spent a semester at a Catholic school in Boise.

SIDE NOTE: We began attending Catholic church in that charming little Washington town, up by the border. We gave the very responsible parenting thing our best shot, and our oldest child even received her 1st communion. But when the priest we enjoyed was transferred, we decided to try a nondenominational Christian Church in Bellingham. If we were in the big city on Sundays, after church we could go out to breakfast and then to Costco. Neither of which could be done in our small down the road...on Sunday.  

Our new church was very new wave, with Latte Cart at the front door, and a rock band playing semi-rock/religious/spiritual music. As a child, I had gone to Catholic grade school. It was run by the nuns and priests who lived on campus,and even back then I didn't get into the evangelical arm waving, and I always considered communion the end of mass (church.) At this Christian Church,the kids spent most of the morning in the sanctuary's basement, attending Sunday School. They wouldn't join us until communion time, while we sat through the entire mass. It wasn't church, as I remembered it; no Catholic aerobics; stand, kneel, sit, repeat, and my kids got out of the whole mass thing.

So back to high school in Boise.  I talked to the Catholic track coach about my future trackster's involvement in club soccer, and was told she couldn't do both at their school.  She had been with her club soccer team long enough to feel she would be letting them down, so she bowed out of track, but transferred back to public school in the fall, and started high school track her sophomore year.  I met her coach at the start of the season, and he told me I have no doubt, she'll be a state contender. 

That's too bad for the Catholic School, I thought, but they had a chance.

Throughout high school, she sometimes she won, other races she was 2nd or 3rd, but always in the front of the pack.  She tried hurdling, and became adept, but never consistently three stepped the 100 meter race.  She did break the Boise city 300 meter hurdle record her senior year of high school, which made me pee my pants...literally.

Stay tuned...

More to Watch

My daughter played high school soccer, but she was also ran high school track.  Uh oh, now we sound like pushy, type A parents.  We may may have been, slightly, but I don't think we were competing vicariously through her.... because we had experienced our own success.  I wanted for her to experience what I had, as an athlete, because it helped mold me into the person I became.  My athletic background certainly helped me recover, as well as I did from my my head injury, and I wanted to give my oldest child all the tools she would need, not only to survive life's traumas. but to enjoy everything life threw at you.  That being said, let's continue.

The Western Washington collage track is where she got her start, and as most tracks look about the same, it was easy to find our way around.  Each week on meet day I would haul my kids, and even there friends a time or two, to the track in the big city.  They would run, and jump, competing against other children who's parents were introducing them to their 1st taste of competition, and they loved it. After my over-the-top response at her 1st race, I learned to restrain myself when ever cheering was expected. But, as she became more involved with soccer, and I began coaching, we attended the meets less, and less.  The meets became a memory but her track career was just starting.

Around that time she also began to express interest in tennis, encouraged by a young man I coached track with.  He had been a talented tennis player, and was the high school tennis coach.  One .afternoon I drove Rachel to Bellingham for her 1st lesson.  We left the car, to make our way to the courts, when she informed me that she had changed her mind.  I was rather unhappy, and probably let her know, but I understood entirely.

My own mother had driven me to AAU cross country sign ups each year, and each year, while still in the car, I would tell her that I had changed my mind.  I'd tell her that I'd be ready to run the next year. Then we'd go for ice cream, or a pop at my dad's bar

Although I was disappointed that Rachel had wimped out of tennis, I tried not to show it, and on our way to the car a man stopped me.  He told me that he could see my daughter was athletic, and asked if he could teach her to pole vault. Women had only recently began vaulting, and one of the best was from Idaho.  No thanks, I said, fearing the event itself 1st, and then the strange man.  We returned to our small town, where I'm pretty sure ice cream was involved.

When I was coaching track in our little town, both my kids spent lots of time with me on the high school track.  They weren't old enough to be left home alone, so in the beginning they rode a school bus from their intermediate school to the high school.  Then, a trusted high school athlete would pick them up and deliver them to the track.  Because we coached middle school athletes 1st, the chosen escort did not miss any practice.  My best hurdler was Marty, and at the end of practice we would lower the hurdles and my kids would run over them.  Marty helped me coach them, and I watched all my kids have fun.

Marty ended up running at state, but never became consistent running 3 steps between the hurdles. The 300 hurdles were her better race.  It's strange how my little girl's experience with hurdles mirrored Marty's.  But my Rachel didn't just hurdle, she was a sprinter to the core.

She started grade 6 in Boise, she ran in an abbreviated cross country race against all the other 6th graders. It was an introduction to cross country, and an attempt to lure more kids to the sport. The husband and wife team I coached track with, were also the cross country coaches for both the middle school, and high school. Rachel placed 2nd in the mini X country race, behind a good friend she played soccer with.  But before the end of the school year we moved again, this time to Idaho.

Mr. Fast was her 6th grade teacher in Idaho. It may have been an omen, because all Boise elementary schools ran track programs for 5th and 6th graders, and of course, Rachel signed up.  After winning her 1st race, she told me quietly as if  confessing, that it felt really good to win, and she was faster than she thought. Once again, her main competition came from a close friend/soccer team mate. They began trading wins, and both girls qualified for the city championship on Boise State's track.

We arrived early for the meet at BSU. A beautiful all weather surfaced track, surrounds the famous blue football field. The girls were hesitant, telling me they didn't think they were allowed on the track till others got there.   Not true, I said, follow me.  I hobbled down to the track, and let them know what I thought they should be doing to warm up. (FYI: young runners don't know how to warm up.) I stayed with them until other athletes arrived and they got caught up in the excitement of running City.

Rachel took 1st, and her soccer friend Maddie was 2nd.  And yes, I got the same feeling I had watching her run, and win her 1st race in Bellingham.

But there's still more, and I have to finish what I've started.

Watching Rachel

After writing about my parents watching me (compete and coach) I started to think about how my little girl's experiences compared.  She was the off spring of two accomplished athletes; her dad was an Oregon football player.  So, yes, we steered her towards sports, but tried hard not to be overbearing.  I’ll get this off my chest early on, so you know where I’m coming from. I think young athletes today are encouraged to specialize in a sport far too young.

Her sports career began in a Bellingham, WA gym where she took gymnastic lessons.  The gym was about 15 miles away from our little town, and her gymnastics coach also lived near us  At that time, I was not driving at night, so when Day Light Savings rolled around, my tiny gymnast was going to need to ride home with her coach, although I would pick her up from school and get her to the gym.  No thanks, she said, when presented with the new ride scenario, I just won’t go anymore.

I was raised to finish anything I started, as was her dad, but because neither of us had been gymnasts, and it really wasn't her fault that I couldn’t be there to take her home, we let her quit. Then when Spring rolled around, and day light was no longer a factor, I took her to run and long jump at all comer track meets in the city down the road.

I stood, with the other moms, on the side of the track to watch her 1^st race.  As the other moms smiled, and waved at their kids on the starting line, I felt a flutter in my gut that was both familiar and strange. I hadn’t felt the sensation in years.  When the starter fired his gun, Rachel took off like a shot, while some of the others skipped, or jogged, down the track.  I was in shock as my little Rachel headed for the finish line in 1^st place, but not because she was winning.  It was the way I reacted to her determination, that struck the blow.  My booming voice and raucous behavior may have been appropriate at a high school state track meet, but it was uncalled for when watching a handful of sweet six year olds run what was probably their 1st  100 meters trek.

At that moment, I recalled my mother stories of my early track years; during each race I would take the time necessary to 1^st, find her in the stands, and 2^nd send her a jovial waive.  I guess I had been one of the skippers.

She began playing soccer around that time too, and learned the game well.   A couple soccer moms, gathered up all the most talented girls in our little town, and formed a club team, of sorts, to compete in a tournament in Bellingham.  The best of our little town played their hearts out, even though they were playing up.  Playing up means that the teams you compete against have players that are all a year older than your athletes.

Then we moved to Boise, and she scored 2 or 3 goals is the 1^st few minutes of her 1^st city league game.  After the game, her coach suggested that she try for a spot on a club team.  I guess talented kids belonged on club teams, and her dad quickly found a connection to just such a team, and they were willing to give Rachel a try.  She seemed to love soccer and we wanted her to become the best player she could be, so we convinced her to try out.  The easiest way to justify our motives is to remind you that athletics played a positive and prominent role in our lives, and we wanted the same for her.

At her try out she scored a goal against her new found team’s defense almost immediately, and was asked to join the team.  Between practice, games, and tournaments, I quickly developed an outstanding Watching routine.  On game days, twice a week, we would leave for the game extra early so I could stop for an iced mocha at the nearest drive through coffee place, before delivering her to  her team for pre-game warm ups. Then I’d sit quietly in my lawn chair, mid field, iced mocha in hand, and watched as her talent grew. Seeing her compete became my favorite past time, but because it was soccer, my side line presence differed greatly from the screaming monster I had been on the track.

She played soccer for years, and at one point, she told us she was done.   I wanted to shout No, don’t quit, you’re my favorite leisure activity!  But her dad and I calmly said it was her decision, and she retreated to her bedroom.  Soon, she reappeared, with tears in her eyes, to tell us that she was going to play. And she explained why she was afraid to quit, saying,  I think I'll be sorry, and I don't want to disappoint myself. Boy, was I relieved; I was becoming addicted to iced mochas, and the perfect down time.

So club soccer continued, and later, high school soccer.  She played striker for years, I assume because of her speed, but ended up as a defender.  She preferred preventing goals and seemed to have found her position. But, because she played much bigger than her actual size, she confronted larger players without hesitation.  She came out ahead, on many altercations, but sustained concussions and her coaches advised against any more soccer.  She was disappointed, as she missed play in the state tourny her senior year, but overall she felt that she had enjoyed it long enough, and was ready to be done.

My watching wasn't over though!  Stay tuned for more.