But I'll get to that in a minute. If I do this right it will all make sense.
Finished up a full weekend of a soccer tournament with my youngest. She plays on a U12 team...means the girls are all under 12. My girl is 10. That's way under 12. It's 83 percent of 12.
She's not the best player on the team. She never will be. She doesn't play the most minutes. She never will. She's not a high scorer...or kicks the ball the hardest...or is the fastest..or most aggressive.
I'm ok with that.
She tries hard. She listens to the coach. She cheers on her teammates. She is an important part of the team. She feels like she's part of the group.
I'm ok with that too.
This is a team loaded with successful girls. I see future class presidents on this team. I see remarkable young ladies whose futures are as bright as they want them to be. I think these girls can all be anything they aspire to. This is a good group of kids.
My daughter included...maybe even my daughter especially.
So this weekend her team played their hearts out. They won every game. (As a matter of fact they haven't lost a game all season) 36 hours after they played the first game of the weekend they played in the championship.
It was a 2-2 tie.
They played one five minute overtime, no change...then another, still tied.
It finally came down to a penalty shoot out.
The other team scored more then we did.
The girls were upset. Some cried, most mustered smiles while accepting their second place trophies. They were all dissapointed.
It was a quiet ride home. She took a shower, we made dinner.
In the shower I could hear her singing. I knew the healing had begun.
After dinner she wanted to snuggle with me in the living room.
Now she and Mom are going through old photos and laughing about the memories those pictures hold (although if I hear her say, "Daddy you were skinny" one more time, I might have to put an end to their trip down memory lane).
So, that same memory lane brings me back to the title of this blog. It was the story I told my daughter on the ride home while she was still down. It wasn't meant to make her feel better, it was just meant to let her know that I knew how she was feeling.
Here goes...
1974..ten years old.
First year of Little League.
League Championship game.
All tied up.
Extra innings.
Somehow I'm pitching, although I was a first baseman, I sometimes pitched.
One of the best players in the league, Steve Graves, comes up to bat.
He is 12, I'm 83 percent of his age...and maybe 65 pecent of his talent.
My coach, who I knew at the time as Uncle Norman, although he wasn't actually my uncle, calls time out and comes out to the mound.
He walks up to me, put's his hand on my shoulder and says, "Don't give him anything good to hit".
I nod.
Uncle Norman walks off the field.
I step on the mound.
Steve Graves steps into the batter's box. (not that it matters but he was a lefty)
In my mind I'm thinking, "don't give him anything good to hit...don't give him anything good to hit".
I wind up.
I let it fly.
Steve Graves takes a mighty cut.
Homerun.
We lose the championship.
I gave him something good to hit.
I did because I was only ten years old.
The reason I told my daughter this story was to show her that even though I still remember that like it was yesterday, the pain didn't last. It was important to me to try to win, but I didn't, and life went on. It was only a game. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't important.
I'm not diminishing the importance sports can be in your life. But for nearly 100% of us they need to be viewed as a trip down a side street on the road of life. I've had some of the best experiences of my life on these side streets, I've had some less than great experiences as well. My life wouldn't be what it is if I didn't go down those roads.
Do well in school. Be kind, caring, and polite in society. Try your best and if it's not good enough then try to do a little better the next time. That's life. That's important.
Those things and having big feet.
That's important too.
Peace and love.
