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 1st 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 1st 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 1st, find her in the stands, and 2nd 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 1st few minutes of her 1st 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.
I stood, with the other moms, on the side of the track to watch her 1st 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 1st 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 1st, find her in the stands, and 2nd 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 1st few minutes of her 1st 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.
My watching wasn't over though! Stay tuned for more.
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