“Levi has got to learn how to be part of a team,” scolds the mother of one of his friends. I nod soberly as if I agree. But I feel conflicted–caught between knowing what my child ought to do and enjoying what he’s actually doing. Because what that other parent doesn’t see is that my son has his own way of dealing with team sports. He goofs around, occasionally bursts into song and has a great time, whether they win or lose. And I can’t help secretly approving.
Unfortunately, it isn’t fair to force Levi’s eccentricities on the rest of his team. His buddies may be too young and klutzy for his antics to be all that disruptive, but their attitudes about the game have been getting more and more serious of late. It’s only a matter of time before one of them decks him. Or I can easily imagine Levi hurting himself by heading a soccer ball, faking a fainting spell and ending up with divots in his forehead from another player’s cleats.
But somehow I can’t bring myself to pull him off the team. Not when I feel partially to blame for the way he is. Some of Levi’s attitude comes from the fact that he is a creative kid who resists being limited by the pesky rules and regulations that govern scoring goals and winning games. But much of his attitude comes from my tacit approval of his shenanigans. The truth is, I’m proud to be raising a kid who manages to have fun doing something that used to make me miserable.
My first brush with team sports was playing Little League softball. Like Levi’s, my mind would wander far away from the position I’d been assigned, which was way, way, way out in left field. I lasted about a season, despite having zero aptitude or interest. All I walked away with was a pair of those socks we got with the uniform–the ones without a heel or toe. They figured into quite a few Halloween costumes.
By high school, I’d grown to six feet tall and the push was on for me to join the basketball team. I managed to avoid getting drafted by ducking into the nearest doorway whenever I saw the JV coach barreling down the hallway. The only time I couldn’t escape team sports was in phys ed. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my son’s breezy approach to the problem.
As one of the last kids to get picked for any game, I’d think, “Hey, if they think I stink so bad, the last thing they’re gonna get is my best. I’ll drag ’em all down with me!” Not that I’d try to throw the game on purpose–my natural lack of ability was usually enough to do the job.
I was almost 40 before I found my way back to any kind of athletics. After a physical exam, my doctor ordered me to do something about my weight and cholesterol. I started slowly, lifting weights and riding the stationary bike. I stuck with it. People started to exclaim over my changed appearance. And I began to think, “Maybe this exercise thing isn’t all that bad.”
Still, I resisted team sports. That is, until the afternoon I let myself get talked into a neighborhood game of basketball. Yes, basketball. Naturally, I was terrible and my team lost. But I felt pretty good after the game. I’d been running hard for half an hour, and I wasn’t all that winded. I’d played stupidly–true–but I hadn’t pulled anything. Sure, I needed a nap afterward, but it was a nap of victory: I’d been playing to please myself, and in that respect I’d won.
That’s when I began to realize why I take such pleasure in my son’s goofball attitude. Levi always plays to please himself, to have fun, even if it isn’t directly related to the game. And when he is offered some extra coaching, Levi throws himself into it wholeheartedly. Some of what he learns even sneaks onto the playing field.
I know that, eventually, I’m going to have to act like a responsible parent and steer my son into a solo sport like track or tennis–something with more room for individuality. For now, though, if his fondest wish is to come up with the most creative post-game hand slap (“Superior game”), so be it. Because, when it comes to picking teams, Levi’s already chosen which side he’s on. His own.
