My Serve

(My post on Peterman's Eye, in response to the topic of whether or not parents should, or do, push sports too much on their children)

Nothing changed my life or taught me as much as tennis. Nothing. Not school. Honestly, not even church. I was a skinny dreamer who sat in trees reading books. I was awkward and shy. And then I found a racquet one day when I was bored, my thirteenth summer. And then I found a ball. And then I introduced them to the garage door about 1000 times that day. And then I fell in love with it.

When you stand by yourself on a court and take 200 consecutive serves and only nail two aces, you learn how integral failure is to success. The two aces wouldn't have happened without the 198 that went out or caught the net. Period. And books don't teach you that. And NOTHING in this world feels better than those aces. And without the failures, they wouldn't feel that good. They're inseparable—failure and success. And pondering things doesn't teach you that. And just think of how liberating that is concerning a child's fear to fail, if they learn early that it's a necessary component of an ace.

I imagine this is true of practicing anything physical. Music. Dance.

(and here's where I apply this theory to sports and kids—stay with me)

Some parents don't care enough. They don't go to the matches. Don't ask if you made the team.

Maybe their serves never quite make it over the net.

Some parents care a little too much. Maybe their heart's in the right spot. Maybe it's not.

Maybe their serves are always a little too long.

My tennis coach used to spit in my face when screaming at me between sets. When I made it to states and to the final round of the tournament, he screamed two inches from my face as the entire crowd looked on because I'd missed a volley after diving and landing on my chin. I passed out on his feet.

So maybe the chair umpire should have pulled him off the court a long time ago.

And now it's my serve. Now I'm the parent. My Number 8 heads into his second season of T-Ball in a few months. And the only thing I know how to do, the thing I learned from all my missed serves and all the missed serves of my parents and coaches, is to keep hitting the balls and aim for the box.

With my sons, I imagine they are a new sailboat. Yare, but green. And so I keep them in the harbor protected from big winds, with my hand guiding their rudder. And I like this because the key is that I am behind them, watching carefully to see how their unique shape handles in the water. I don't push. I don't tow them around by a rope. But I do steer. And it is my prayer for both of my sons, that someday when I guide them to the open water, a powerful wind will catch their sails, whatever, or whomever it may be. Just as long as they have passion, and a decent handle on their rudder, everything else will fall into place.

My lawn chair is ready.

And for those parents, like myself, who have difficulty harnessing their competitive spirit at their childrens' games, I highly recommend competing in the "best-snack-bringing-parent" competition. Otter pops, a cooler and scissors always bring home the gold.

Seriously. Just ask the other team moms whose arses I took DOWN last year! Sorry. It's just in me.