It Doesn't Get Better

Wish I could do that. Anyone with a child who has been playing sports for a decade or more knows the feeling. A 16-year-old in top physical condition is capable of a level of play that has long since departed the realm of possibility for the rest of us, if indeed we ever could have done so.

Half an hour before game time he was so sick with stomach flu, throwing up, I wondered if it was worth dragging him out to a scrimmage in the always cold and windy Crocker-Amazon field not far from his high school campus. But he insisted so off we went.

As I patrolled the sidelines with other soccer moms, I once again realized that he is often at his best when overcoming some kind of injury or illness. I don't fully get why this is true but maybe it forces him to play with more intensity than usual, although I'm not sure that intensity is ever an issue for him.

It was easy to see he was enjoying himself, though, while guarding an opposing striker who was taller and bulkier than he is; they were well-matched. But I also could see the other kid getting frustrated as Aidan stripped him of the ball repeatedly and knocked him off the ball once or twice as well.

When they both jumped as high as they could on a corner kick scoring opportunity, the opposing kid tried to elbow him in the face. As he dodged the blow, I could read Aidan's lips from the sideline: "You don't want to do that again."

In any event the striker never got a shot off in what turned into an exciting soccer game, even though the outcome was meaningless. Oh yeah, that striker was sent to the ground twice after the elbow incident. In the second half, his coach replaced him with another forward.

***

It's tricky in this economy and in my present state of virtual non-employment to figure out how I'll do it, but I've gotta find the money to pay for his trip to Sweden this summer to play in the Gothia Cup, a tournament that draws teams from all over the world. I will find that way.

***

He was too sick at halftime to go back into the game, dizzy and weak. He took himself out of the lineup, which his coach never does, so I knew he was indeed quite sick. We spent the rest of the day together, as I got him lunch, let him sleep, and we relaxed together in my apartment.

Talking to his mother today, I articulated something that has been on my mind a lot lately. Despite what most people would consider my impressive career as a journalist, educator, and writer, none of that crosses my mind except for occasionally.

No, it is as a parent that I feel I am doing my best work. It's what I care most about. It's why today was a good day. If I get the relative luxury of a sentient moment on a deathbed at my end point, I know I'll never regret choosing my kids over my career, even with all the difficulty that has caused us at times.

Whether they're sick or well, whether it's homework or sports, whether I'm driving them somewhere or we're hanging out at home, I'm most happy just being a Dad. It actually doesn't get any better than that.

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