Except for its last sentence:
And keep in mind that the interior experience of playing a sport, the beauty and joy of it, is sovereign territory and belongs to the kids themselves.
A friend recently posted on Facebook a column from the Boston Globe titled "How parents are ruining youth sports: Adults should remember what athletics are really about." Having played baseball as a child in the shadows of so many overbearing, obnoxious parents (I am grateful that mine were not among them), and continuing to see similar parents to this day, the article for the most part imparted nothing new. Except for its last sentence: And keep in mind that the interior experience of playing a sport, the beauty and joy of it, is sovereign territory and belongs to the kids themselves. I could not have said it better, and as Edward's baseball tournament draws to a close this week, I am reminded of the pictures I took on opening day.
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Of course I will buy him a ring pop.
We are in Cornelius today, in between games one and two of a challenge baseball tournament. It's something that we've both been looking forward to. His great grandfather was a ball player. As was his grandfather. And, of course, his daddy. To have made his rec league's version of an all star team made us all so proud, and we were all excited for his first challenge games today. And surely that knee injury from an awkward slide last Saturday would be all better today. He rested it all week. We did exactly what the orthopedist's office said to do. This morning, he was ready to go. His knee unfortunately wasn't, which we noticed after the first inning. He said a ball hit it in warm ups. It was swollen. I know it was the right thing to do to tell the coaches to bench my son. But I can tell from those tears that he secretly wipes away in the shade of a tree that he is heartbroken. Childhood is full of disappointments. We remember some forever and some pass away quickly. I will do my best today to help today fall into the latter. I will encourage him to cheer wildly for his teammates in game two. I will tell him he'll be ready for the next tournament in a few weeks. And, of course, I'll buy him a ring pop. The nights when I have the most to do - some combination of dishes to wash, breakfasts to make for the week, and things to review or draft for work - are the nights my five-year-old never listens. My orders that he brush his teeth and put on his pajamas fall on willfully deaf ears. Despite the many pairs in his drawer, he claims he cannot find clean pajamas. He makes excuses that the toothpaste tube is nearly empty and he can't get any more out, though I know he doesn't even try. He plays. He finds ways to create an even bigger mess in the room he shares with his older brother. He jumps from one bed to the other and back again, and with each leap he stretches a bedtime routine that should take but a few minutes into something much, much longer.
With every minute that slips by, I see all the work I need to do more clearly. The mountain comes closer, and I can feel it begin to crush me. Bedtime on such nights is a real struggle. So I raise my voice. I yell. Get ready for bed! Now! I make threats. Or else no book! I let him know this is no act. I mean it! He continues to ignore me, and I let him know on these nights, in my loudest voice yet, there will be no book. When I walk from his room and close the door behind me I know there will immediately be tears, and there are. Through them, and through the door, he pleads for a book. He will get ready for bed, he promises. Please, Daddy, read me a book! Please, Daddy! Bedtime on such nights is a real struggle, one I always lose, for I always give in. On the most recent of these nights it occurred to me this would be a learning opportunity for my son. He could do well to know the beauty of grace. Grace is something we hear about in church, but the idea that we are loved for nothing of our own doing is hard to understand. That such love is never ending, no matter our faults, is difficult to grasp. As I picked out a book and walked toward his bed, I hoped he realized that because of the way he had been acting he did not deserve this. I hoped he might sense grace at work in that very moment. But as we each made ourselves comfortable and I turned to the beginning, my son, without any words, let me know that I was wrong. Grace is not so deliberately given. Grace instead comes freely and innocently, and it comes not expecting or even hoping that lessons might be learned. Grace comes as a sweet and beautiful five-year-old boy, one who, having already forgotten his father's impatience and anger, snuggles close, happily awaiting a bedtime story. Despite everything, he loves me. And, as it goes with grace, I feel I may never be worthy of it. Labor DayI see only his wet, blond hair peeking out On this sunny December day in Houston, I have come to pay my respects, and I tell the parking lot attendant as much when I bring my rental car to a stop. I'd like to get close. Perhaps even take a picture. It is not wrong, as I have learned from my mother, to feel so connected to a place. I can tell from his face that this request is out of the ordinary. He surveys the lot, and for a moment I believe he will wave me through. But his care to do his job well prevails. "You're not going to be able to do that," he tells me. Business, depositions, specifically, have brought me to Houston, but why I am here, in the Astrodome parking lot, is entirely personal. My road to this place began on a summer night many years ago. July 13, 1979, to be exact. That night, in a stadium in Anaheim, thirty-two year old pitcher Nolan Ryan took the mound for the California Angels to face the visiting Yankees. Ryan had pitched four no-hitters by this point in his career, and that night he was working on a fifth. Across the country, in Mount Airy, North Carolina, my father and I watched downstairs. It was late, as I recall, but why I was not in bed I cannot remember. Perhaps I could not sleep, which means my middle child comes by it honestly. These details are fuzzy, but what was clear was that something exciting was happening, and I wanted to watch. This is also the first sporting event I can remember ever watching with my father. There were others in the ensuing years, to be sure: Indiana beating Carolina in the 1981 national championship. Carolina's win over the Georgetown the next year. The Redskins' Super Bowl win in 1983. But Nolan Ryan's attempt at a fifth no-hitter, more than any other pitcher had done, was the first one I can remember. My father and I watched the late innings of the game together, and Yankee after Yankee failed to get a hit. At seven years old, I didn't even understand what a no-hitter was, but I knew from my father's growing excitement that I wanted it to happen. In the top of the eighth, Angels centerfielder Rick Miller misplayed a line drive. The official scorer for the game ruled it an error, keeping the no-hitter in tact. I wanted this to happen. In the top of the ninth, with one out, Reggie Jackson singled up the middle, ruining Ryan's quest for the record books. My father and I watched as the Anaheim crowd, grateful to have been treated to such a masterful pitching performance, gave Ryan a standing ovation. Ryan, equally grateful, tipped his hat several times. Nolan Ryan, though I had never heard of him before that night, became my hero. In the spring of 1980, thanks to free agency, Ryan was a Houston Astro, and my love affair with the Astros, and their home, began. The Astrodome was unlike anything I had ever seen before. It stood alone on the Texas landscape, a massive, imposing structure that commanded people to take notice. And that scoreboard! That giant display of colored animation - cowboys, bulls, fireworks - every time an Astros player hit a home run. It was magical. Strange are the fragmented memories of childhood and why some events survive in our minds and others do not, but I remember that during one of my childhood colds my mother gave me a Kleenox box with various American landmarks on it, including the Astrodome. I stared at its image for hours. It was not until the summer of 1999, though, twenty years after watching Ryan's near no-hitter, that I finally saw a game there. My wife and I, knowing a new stadium was being built for the team, took a trip to Houston to say hello, and good-bye, to the Astrodome. In being among the thousands of fans wearing Astros gear, sitting in an orange seat, and staring up at the beautiful dome, I was somehow home.
In between innings a stadium employee went through the stands wearing a helmet with a small post on top. Fans tried throwing Frisbee-style rings around it, and I was lucky enough to get a chance to try. When I successfuly threw my ring around the target, there I was. Larger than life on that Astrodome scoreboard. Home. During that game in the dome's last season, I wished I could have been there more. The Astrodome now faces an uncertain future. Development approaches. It is dwarfed by a football stadium that stands beside it. The Astrodome, once a giant, looks tired and out of place. The circular stair towers attached to the dome have already been demolished, and unless the private sector steps up, the rest of the Astrodome will be torn down, too. This is why, fourteen years after coming here to say my first good-bye, I've come again. To bid this final farewell. Following the attendant's instructions, I pull forward so that I can make a U-turn and then leave the lot. Before I turn, I roll down the window and take a picture. Nolan Ryan eventually threw that fifth no-hitter on Saturday, September 26, 1981, in the Astrodome. Across the country, this time in Burlington, where we'd moved the year before, I watched with several friends. We lay on our stomachs on the floor, beside each other, rooting for Ryan. I knew what a no-hitter meant this time, and I again wanted it to happen. We jumped and cheered when he did it. So much of my childhood was invested in this team. This building. I am forty-two now. Nolan Ryan has been retired for many years, and my father, who so kindly let me stay up one summer night instead of sending me back to bed, died this past September. As I leave the parking lot I take one last look back. I say good-bye, and I feel yet again some part of my childhood disappear into the ether. |
AuthorJosh Durham is a lawyer, husband, dad, and an astronaut. Okay, he made that last part up, but he did go to Space Camp. Twice. Josh lives in Charlotte, NC with his wife, three kids, and a cat. Archives
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