On competition
Confession time. Like gut-honest, mommy-biased, somewhat self-indulgent style. I think. You might want to skip this one.
Or else pep talk your heart into being extra forgiving for the recent basketball deluge. It is consuming much of our lives, as always, and is by far the most interesting thing I have to blog about right now. Unless you think hour after hour of Super Mario or our daily arguments over the impending school spelling bees are interesting.
I'm rather competitive. In lieu of striving for social acceptance and general coolness, from my childhood on, I've directed my energy toward trying to be the best at everything. Piano, grades, spelling bees (ugh), handwriting. Darn that TJ Kasey for having Pinterest-worthy scrawl at the ripe old age of six. I'll never forgive myself for losing that contest three decades ago.
Not a huge fan of attention, but learned quickly to love the thrill of achievement.
My last year of slow-pitch rec softball, end-of-season tournament. We had played three games that day, enough that the third game was under the lights. We were exhausted. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, a couple on base that could erase our small lead. I'm playing first base. My girl Kelly was pitching. Batter makes contact and it's a fast, hard grounder headed straight for me.
Time. Stopped. No joke, because all I remember thinking is, "This is all on me. Don't screw up. Big moment." And it takes a lot longer to think those things than it took for that ball to cross the field.
I caught the ball, stepped on first, and we won the game. The tournament. The season. We jumped and danced and squealed as only twelve-year-old girls can do, and it was intoxicating. Victory. Purpose. Validation. Competitive spirit fed.
Young adulthood looked different, of course. Comparison and ignorance drove me to want to be the best wife, the best cook, with the cleanest house and everything together. Not my best years.
It has definitely gotten better. Somehow your thirties free you from the rat race of comparison. Or maybe it was that six-month stretch where every time we went to a restaurant Aden threw up at the table and I caught the vomit in my hands.
Either way, perfection competitiveness has subsided quite a bit. General competitiveness? Not so much.
Watching Brandon's games sometimes I feel like a different person. Reactions to what is going on just burst out of me. Can not stop the nerdy white girl fist pumps. It's uncontrollable. And the elation over a win for a school I didn't even go to. Y'all. What on earth.
Last year, as we are all too well aware, Aden did not shoot the ball because he didn't feel like it. Which, full disclosure, was a hard pill to swallow. Nothing like having humility forced upon you. But bless his heart, his somewhat natural athleticism had thrust him into the leadership role of point guard. Which was a lot for a five-year-old to handle. I hated what he was missing by not enjoying the games, and at the same time hated the pressure he found himself under.
Then there's this year.
And it's awesome.
As into my own games as I used to get, and as embarrassingly as I conduct myself at Brandon's games, there is nothing in this entire universe like watching your child fully immersed in something they are good at.
I'd say that I don't even take a breath while the clock is running during Aden's games, except that I breathe enough to murmur to myself the entire time all the things I wish I could just let loose and shout. Aden has asked me not to act at his games like I do at Brandon's. #allidoiswin
So much pride. And yes, I'd be proud of him if he was terrible and never made a shot. But he's making shots. Impressive ones. And rebounds and steals and spin moves like nobody's business. And it's like my heart is going to explode. A joy like I've never felt before in my life. Victory. Purpose. Validation. Competitive spirit fed.
It's awesome.
Aden Levi, I'm your biggest fan.
Trey Isaiah, I'm also your biggest fan. You make my heart soar too, babe, whether you play sports or not. We all know how much you love basketball and how amazing you are at it. And if you ever, ever decide to play, look out. Your cheering section is experienced and ready.
Because apparently it means infinitely more to watch your kids achieve and excel than it ever meant for yourself.
Josh and Kalip, two of the boys' heroes from Brandon's team, came to watch Aden in his game. Basketball is family. And we love it.
Or else pep talk your heart into being extra forgiving for the recent basketball deluge. It is consuming much of our lives, as always, and is by far the most interesting thing I have to blog about right now. Unless you think hour after hour of Super Mario or our daily arguments over the impending school spelling bees are interesting.
I'm rather competitive. In lieu of striving for social acceptance and general coolness, from my childhood on, I've directed my energy toward trying to be the best at everything. Piano, grades, spelling bees (ugh), handwriting. Darn that TJ Kasey for having Pinterest-worthy scrawl at the ripe old age of six. I'll never forgive myself for losing that contest three decades ago.
Not a huge fan of attention, but learned quickly to love the thrill of achievement.
My last year of slow-pitch rec softball, end-of-season tournament. We had played three games that day, enough that the third game was under the lights. We were exhausted. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, a couple on base that could erase our small lead. I'm playing first base. My girl Kelly was pitching. Batter makes contact and it's a fast, hard grounder headed straight for me.
Time. Stopped. No joke, because all I remember thinking is, "This is all on me. Don't screw up. Big moment." And it takes a lot longer to think those things than it took for that ball to cross the field.
I caught the ball, stepped on first, and we won the game. The tournament. The season. We jumped and danced and squealed as only twelve-year-old girls can do, and it was intoxicating. Victory. Purpose. Validation. Competitive spirit fed.
Young adulthood looked different, of course. Comparison and ignorance drove me to want to be the best wife, the best cook, with the cleanest house and everything together. Not my best years.
It has definitely gotten better. Somehow your thirties free you from the rat race of comparison. Or maybe it was that six-month stretch where every time we went to a restaurant Aden threw up at the table and I caught the vomit in my hands.
Either way, perfection competitiveness has subsided quite a bit. General competitiveness? Not so much.
Watching Brandon's games sometimes I feel like a different person. Reactions to what is going on just burst out of me. Can not stop the nerdy white girl fist pumps. It's uncontrollable. And the elation over a win for a school I didn't even go to. Y'all. What on earth.
Last year, as we are all too well aware, Aden did not shoot the ball because he didn't feel like it. Which, full disclosure, was a hard pill to swallow. Nothing like having humility forced upon you. But bless his heart, his somewhat natural athleticism had thrust him into the leadership role of point guard. Which was a lot for a five-year-old to handle. I hated what he was missing by not enjoying the games, and at the same time hated the pressure he found himself under.
Then there's this year.
And it's awesome.
As into my own games as I used to get, and as embarrassingly as I conduct myself at Brandon's games, there is nothing in this entire universe like watching your child fully immersed in something they are good at.
I'd say that I don't even take a breath while the clock is running during Aden's games, except that I breathe enough to murmur to myself the entire time all the things I wish I could just let loose and shout. Aden has asked me not to act at his games like I do at Brandon's. #allidoiswin
So much pride. And yes, I'd be proud of him if he was terrible and never made a shot. But he's making shots. Impressive ones. And rebounds and steals and spin moves like nobody's business. And it's like my heart is going to explode. A joy like I've never felt before in my life. Victory. Purpose. Validation. Competitive spirit fed.
It's awesome.
Aden Levi, I'm your biggest fan.
Trey Isaiah, I'm also your biggest fan. You make my heart soar too, babe, whether you play sports or not. We all know how much you love basketball and how amazing you are at it. And if you ever, ever decide to play, look out. Your cheering section is experienced and ready.
Because apparently it means infinitely more to watch your kids achieve and excel than it ever meant for yourself.
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