Going the distance

Both my kids played soccer the second they were old enough to join a team. In other words, way too early. I’d always said that my kids would do one sport at a time. However, I have since eaten those words. Both of my kids also had a brief t-ball stint. We didn’t mean it, soccer practice, games, remembering to wash the jersey and praying I didn’t forget that I was on snack duty was more than enough stress. However, a neighbor was playing and they needed another teammate or my friend was coaching. “It will be fun” they said. 

Owen liked t-ball enough to play a second season, Tess was a different story. 

Eventually Owen somehow ended up on a coach pitch team. And coach pitch was an entirely new world that I had not been prepared for until I watched my tiny son walk up to bat. The batter before him had struck out and it had been the first time I realized that my son might do the same. T-ball is just hitting the ball on a stick. Soccer at that age is just a gaggle of kids chasing the same ball, but coach pitch took no prisoners. Each time my six year old went up to bat that season I felt my chest get tight. I ached for him not to fail in front of the dozens of parents and grandparents watching. I pretended it was about his heart, but maybe it was a little about mine too. Owen was usually good for a solid base hit, but my nerves were glad that he never played another season. 

I was never a star athlete. Actually, I was barely an athlete at all. My siblings were both band stars. Unlike my siblings though, I was competitive and maybe a little angry. I wanted to hit tennis balls hard and slide tackle opponents. I wanted to be part of a team, to sweat and push myself physically, not just mentally. I got a late start and started playing tennis and soccer in high school. I made the teams, but barely. I was used to being average (or less) and earning my place through effort. 

Owen was always the littlest, even in elementary school. This made him always have to run just a little bit faster to keep up and he took more and his share of hits from someone twice his size. This made him scrappy and even in a Varsity sport his opponents always underestimated him. He fought for every point or goal. Maybe he learned to be brave when he could barely swing a bat and just held on to it. Tess, however, is a perfectionist with a harsh inner critic. This means she mostly only likes to do things that she is good at or knows she will be successful in publically. She was a nightmare to get to try new things as a small child and I had to carry her kicking and screaming (literally) into more than one activity. And when it got hard, she’d often quit. Good thing she is so smart and talented or else she’d never leave her room. She had really only been an average soccer player but during Covid she constantly asked to go to the park and take shots at her father or I. Now, I hate to be on the other end of those shots. This year she was defensive captain on her club team and more than one parent has called her a badass. She still has plenty to learn but asks her father to take her to shoot any night she is free. She also goes to a school that teaches the design process and encourages learning from mistakes, but I haven’t really seen her put this into practice. Mid-Spring semester, however she announced that she was going to try out for track. I was shocked, Tess has only ever run a race when we have tricked her into it. She is in shape, but she isn’t fast. 

I’d go to track practice each day thirty minutes early and put in my headphones and run around the neighboring park. I’d watch her from the trail, and find her somewhere near the back. I was proud of her for doing this thing that she was not confident in. That she wasn’t even average at. She’d get in the car each night, smelling especially ripe and commenting on her struggle. I told her how proud I was and she sighed….and said “Are you about to tell me” ….and filled in all my blanks with pretty much everything I had to say about courage and grit but somehow it lost its power coming out of a disillusioned teenager’s mouth. 

The 2400 is six full laps around a track (1.5 miles). Six laps is plenty of time to get lapped. For there to be an uncomfortable amount of time between the first place finisher and the last place. (Like enough time to go to the bathroom or buy a snack). Like my son’s first baseball game, she was going to have to do this in front of an audience. I thought back to my soccer days, where hardly anyone sat in the stadium….but it turns out that the stadium is full to the brim for a track meet. And since her event was first many people were even paying attention and cheering. For the first meet, I had already had an emotional day, but I sat there and watched my girl come in next to last and wept and cheered and could not have been more proud. 

I did it again the next week. 

She held a steady pace, even if it meant that every other runner pulled way ahead.

She just kept running her race. 

And occasionally found some kick at the end passing another racer that she had been behind for 5 and ¾ laps. I had no idea that track meets were going to involve tears. (mine not hers). I had to explain to a friend that I wasn’t sad or embarrassed but that I was so damn proud I couldn’t hold it in. Doing things you are good at is easy. Sure, it requires hard work and effort, but doing things that you aren’t great at means overcoming fear. Being first is impressive but being last (or almost last) is incredibly brave. I’ll cheer (and apparently cry) for that every time.
Track season is short. She won’t qualify for the district meet. She won’t earn a single medal. But it will be the most impactful thing I think she’s done all year. She says she is just running to stay in shape for soccer, but I tell her she is running to show her grit. She is running to quiet her inner critic. She is running to grow resilience that is bigger than her perfection. 

Even before I had my own I knew from teaching that teens have plenty to teach the grown-ups. Teenagers mostly teach me how miserably uncool I am and how to properly use electronics. But this time around my daughter has taught me that who we were isn’t who we have to stay. I’m wondering what figurative race I should be running. What am I not doing because I’m afraid I won’t be good enough?  What could I be doing to grow my own courage muscles? That like her, I can keep running my race regardless of everyone else’s pace. That winners don’t just come in first (or second or third). 

Team Hurst won a few medals this week...off the field. 

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