 |
| Drew New Hampshire, 11 |
of being 11 years-old his best friend talked him into trying out football. I sat on the sidelines and noticed two things. One, this coach had been around for awhile and these kids weren't new to football. The players immediately formed warm up lines and snapped into military like precision warming up. Two, Drew was arguably the smallest kid on this football team ... and it was his first year.
That first practice day I watched in a mommy slow motion movie, frame by painfully slow frame as Drew took his first "hit" in a suicide drill. A hit unceremoniously sanctioned by a kid easily twice his size and an obvious veteran of the game. Drew's body looked like a rag doll as he flew a few feet in the air landing flat on his back. He wasn't moving. My momma bear instinct filled my whole body as I sharpened my claws ready to rush the field. I wanted to rush the field, I needed to save and protect him. As I started to stand, a fellow "seasoned" football mom firmly put her hand on my knee, locked eyes with me and gently said, "if you go out there, he'll never forgive you." She was right, I knew she was right. I retracted my momma bear claws and sat on the sidelines ... chewed off my nails ... and tried to will my son to "get up, just get up".
It seemed like forever as I watched first one coach then two stand over my son and talk to him. In my mind I was silently repeating the phrase, "just get up, move, just get up ...". I saw his head move, then one leg, and in what seemed like a lifetime of moments, the other leg suddenly tucked up to meet his other leg at the knees. The head coach offered his hand, brought Drew to his feet, and then grabbed Drew's facemask. The coach locked eyes with this little creature I call son and whispered something. Drew nodded, and a butt slap later he was back on the field. I tried to see his face through that face mask to see if he was really okay. There were some tears, but no sound.
Drew was hit repeatedly that season. Every time the helmets and pads made contact I felt a silent struggle with being his protector and letting him go. It took a few "hits" for me to understand this was football... and there is no crying in football. Even for the mom. I learned that Drew knowing how to take a hit was key for his safety. I found myself hollering, "stay low, stay low, dig, dig, dig!!!". In that way only a mom understands, it was my approach at protection without humiliation.
 |
| Colorado Football Drew 12 |
Drew spent a season literally black and blue, but he never gave up ... and I never walked on that field. On the last day of the season the veteran coach with at least twenty years experience pulled the kids into their final huddle and brought Drew forward. "Gentleman," he began, "I've never seen a kid take a hit and keep getting up like Drew. Never in my career as a coach for over 20 years." The coach continued in his speech, but of course all this mom heard was "he got up".
What Drew lacked in size on the field, he made up for in heart and understanding of the game. He loved football, and I loved what football did for him to push through physical and emotional barriers with a coach who believed that there were no "stars", only a team. Drew may have been one of the physically smallest players, but by years end, he stood taller. And then we moved to Colorado from New Hampshire. We arrived in Colorado in late Spring and Drew's only request was that we find a football program for him in Colorado. We did, he played, and it was different. By the end of the season my son who loved football didn't want to play every again. It wasn't until months later I found out why ... and after I regained my mommy composure, I wrote his coach this letter:
http://www.eldridge5.blogspot.com/2010/08/dear-coach.html
" ... the great players got better and more experienced while others (including my son) became complacent, never getting better, never getting a chance to become better... You have the chance to give these boys at the beginning of their most awkward adolescent journey lessons in life. Those kids look up to you as a coach, they will follow your lead and your example. Teach those kids the importance of team, allow the faster, stronger players an opportunity to learn the meaning of team as they buoy up the smaller, slower players. In a nutshell, teach them to be men. Men who don’t bully, men who help others, men who exercise integrity, and men who know winning has its place in this world, but giving all your heart to whatever you do in life is the real test of a man."
http://www.eldridge5.blogspot.com/2010/08/dear-coach.html
" ... the great players got better and more experienced while others (including my son) became complacent, never getting better, never getting a chance to become better... You have the chance to give these boys at the beginning of their most awkward adolescent journey lessons in life. Those kids look up to you as a coach, they will follow your lead and your example. Teach those kids the importance of team, allow the faster, stronger players an opportunity to learn the meaning of team as they buoy up the smaller, slower players. In a nutshell, teach them to be men. Men who don’t bully, men who help others, men who exercise integrity, and men who know winning has its place in this world, but giving all your heart to whatever you do in life is the real test of a man."
Drew never looked back. He never played again. Last year we went back to football. Number two in our pack of boys, the one who's actually built for the game but doesn't realize his size gives people assumptions about his demeanor. Bradyn is built like a linebacker, but he's not a killing machine. Last year, at 10 years old and 115 lbs he is what is called an "X" man in youth football. "X" is fancy terminology for the marking they put on your helmet indicating you, son, are huge, like a bear. You are only allowed to maul other large bears with the same "X" marking. Everyone with an "X", go the bear aisle.
 |
| Bradyn Football 10 |
The problem is unlike his older brother who had to "earn" each and every hit, my big bear is genetically gigantic. What would his heart look like? I watched him at the pre-season High School football camp last summer. I shook my head in disbelief. My big "built for the game" kid ... he didn't give a crap. I scream, "stay low, dig" and he falls over. They run drills, he scampers drills, and then wonders why everyone else seems so tired. I think he is convinced wearing yourself out for a silly game is pointless. I found myself with my bear sloth absolutely exasperated before the official football season started last year. Unlike his genetically disadvantaged size wise brother, I wasn't sure this one would get up after a hit. I thought he might expect me to charge the field and beat the kid who tackled him, or worse, he will cry.
I worried if he doesn't take the hit, as in go INTO rather than FALL to the side of the hit, he will be hurt. It's a safety thing I learned years ago with Drew ... and it's really a thing a kid should learn if they are going to play football and minimize risk. Take the hit, head on, get up, get back out there.
Last year in a frenzy of fear and exasperation prior to his first practice I was convinced this gentle bear had no idea what "X" meant. I had him put on his gear and head into the backyard. I grabbed the front of his facemask and found myself becoming uncharacteristically passionate about sports... which let's be honest, was really aka the momma bear protector warning system. "Look, you are going to have a giant "X" on your helmet. That "X" is like a target for other big kids. They want to hit you. They will hit you. If you don't hit them first, here (as I pound my chest like the mama ape I am apparently becoming), they will hit you, you will fall, and it will hurt like hell. I won't help you get up, you have to get up, but first, you have to take the hit!"
I then smacked his butt and said, "three point stance!" He was a little terrified at this point because Mommy had lost the will to be reasonable. He dutifully went into a 3 point stance. "Get your head up! Look at who you're gonna tackle!" Sadly the person he was about to tackle was his mother. He awkwardly smiled. I yelled, "you TACKLE ME!" He smiled again and I screamed, "TAKE ME DOWN!" The smile left and he obliged. The bear lunged out of his three point stance and charged. He knocked the wind out of me for a second and I felt my feet start to lift but all I could do was feel proud as I screamed, "stay low, stay low, dig, dig, dig!!!" I think for a moment he realized his size and strength were a legendary combination for his age.
A day later, I found myself standing on the field with him holding his face mask saying, "X, hit or be hit, stay low, dig, it's gonna hurt like hell, get up." Bradyn padded up and played his first practice, I grimaced when he took his first hit. Nobody can quite explain the deafening echo of the sound of pads and helmets crushing into one another knowing your son/daughter is inside of that mess. And that first hit ... it was like hitting an instant replay from so many years ago with Drew. He went down, not as violently as his much smaller brother, but it was a hefty hit from a veteran. I didn't charge the field ... I sat there and thought, "get up ... get up ..." and he did.
Bradyn had a fantastic experience last year in football. He played "up" a year (meaning as a 5th grader he played with the 6th graders because of his size). He played with kids who had played since first grade. Not unlike his older brother, he was black and blue from season beginning to end. He was pushed emotionally and physically and there were tears ... but not on the field. The tears he saves from the field, the tears he thinks his Mom doesn't hear, the tears he saves for behind a closed bathroom door, a running shower, and a space that feels safe for him to wail and hit and scream and cry ... because he's mentally broken.
The championship game was a devastating loss, but every child walked off that field a better person because they had phenomenal coaches who realized the meaning of team. Every player was pushed, brought together, played together, won and loss together. As the players stood silently listening to their coaches final speech, I looked around at these little men who now openly shed tears together with their coaches ... as a team.
As a mom of four boys, there are many sports my kids have played, but none quite as intense as football. Many years ago I learned a valuable lesson from a dear friend. There are times I can't charge the field in my momma bear fervor and save my sons ... because they will never forgive me. They will never forgive me and I will never forgive myself for not trusting that their will is as strong as their heart.
Drew was never "built" for football, but he could run a play and take a hit better than any kid I've ever seen. I think there is some regret in his decision to not continue ... but I think bad coaches and nasty politics firmly plant kids showing some athleticism in first grade as superstars leaving potential talent on the bench. Bad coaches put their brand early on several kids like Drew. It's why High School teams in small towns struggle and the NFL reports stories of "walk-ons" who never knew they were athletically phenomenal until 16.
Bradyn is "built" for the game and was fortunate enough to have a phenomenal coaching staff who knew the importance of building a team and in turn creating a player. He, like his brother, loves the game. Sheer odds say there is a 25% chance one of my four boys will play football into high school and perhaps beyond. But there is a 100% chance they will be successful in whatever they choose because they have the heart, will, strength, intelligence and talent to be whatever they choose ... and I will always be there, standing on the sidelines of their life, praying they will continue to get up no matter how hard life hits, hoping they grow into men of integrity and kindness. So far, so good.
I worried if he doesn't take the hit, as in go INTO rather than FALL to the side of the hit, he will be hurt. It's a safety thing I learned years ago with Drew ... and it's really a thing a kid should learn if they are going to play football and minimize risk. Take the hit, head on, get up, get back out there.
Last year in a frenzy of fear and exasperation prior to his first practice I was convinced this gentle bear had no idea what "X" meant. I had him put on his gear and head into the backyard. I grabbed the front of his facemask and found myself becoming uncharacteristically passionate about sports... which let's be honest, was really aka the momma bear protector warning system. "Look, you are going to have a giant "X" on your helmet. That "X" is like a target for other big kids. They want to hit you. They will hit you. If you don't hit them first, here (as I pound my chest like the mama ape I am apparently becoming), they will hit you, you will fall, and it will hurt like hell. I won't help you get up, you have to get up, but first, you have to take the hit!"
I then smacked his butt and said, "three point stance!" He was a little terrified at this point because Mommy had lost the will to be reasonable. He dutifully went into a 3 point stance. "Get your head up! Look at who you're gonna tackle!" Sadly the person he was about to tackle was his mother. He awkwardly smiled. I yelled, "you TACKLE ME!" He smiled again and I screamed, "TAKE ME DOWN!" The smile left and he obliged. The bear lunged out of his three point stance and charged. He knocked the wind out of me for a second and I felt my feet start to lift but all I could do was feel proud as I screamed, "stay low, stay low, dig, dig, dig!!!" I think for a moment he realized his size and strength were a legendary combination for his age.
A day later, I found myself standing on the field with him holding his face mask saying, "X, hit or be hit, stay low, dig, it's gonna hurt like hell, get up." Bradyn padded up and played his first practice, I grimaced when he took his first hit. Nobody can quite explain the deafening echo of the sound of pads and helmets crushing into one another knowing your son/daughter is inside of that mess. And that first hit ... it was like hitting an instant replay from so many years ago with Drew. He went down, not as violently as his much smaller brother, but it was a hefty hit from a veteran. I didn't charge the field ... I sat there and thought, "get up ... get up ..." and he did.
Bradyn had a fantastic experience last year in football. He played "up" a year (meaning as a 5th grader he played with the 6th graders because of his size). He played with kids who had played since first grade. Not unlike his older brother, he was black and blue from season beginning to end. He was pushed emotionally and physically and there were tears ... but not on the field. The tears he saves from the field, the tears he thinks his Mom doesn't hear, the tears he saves for behind a closed bathroom door, a running shower, and a space that feels safe for him to wail and hit and scream and cry ... because he's mentally broken.
The championship game was a devastating loss, but every child walked off that field a better person because they had phenomenal coaches who realized the meaning of team. Every player was pushed, brought together, played together, won and loss together. As the players stood silently listening to their coaches final speech, I looked around at these little men who now openly shed tears together with their coaches ... as a team.
As a mom of four boys, there are many sports my kids have played, but none quite as intense as football. Many years ago I learned a valuable lesson from a dear friend. There are times I can't charge the field in my momma bear fervor and save my sons ... because they will never forgive me. They will never forgive me and I will never forgive myself for not trusting that their will is as strong as their heart.
Drew was never "built" for football, but he could run a play and take a hit better than any kid I've ever seen. I think there is some regret in his decision to not continue ... but I think bad coaches and nasty politics firmly plant kids showing some athleticism in first grade as superstars leaving potential talent on the bench. Bad coaches put their brand early on several kids like Drew. It's why High School teams in small towns struggle and the NFL reports stories of "walk-ons" who never knew they were athletically phenomenal until 16.
Bradyn is "built" for the game and was fortunate enough to have a phenomenal coaching staff who knew the importance of building a team and in turn creating a player. He, like his brother, loves the game. Sheer odds say there is a 25% chance one of my four boys will play football into high school and perhaps beyond. But there is a 100% chance they will be successful in whatever they choose because they have the heart, will, strength, intelligence and talent to be whatever they choose ... and I will always be there, standing on the sidelines of their life, praying they will continue to get up no matter how hard life hits, hoping they grow into men of integrity and kindness. So far, so good.
 |
| Bradyn 10 years Football Day One |
