You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
Watching a sporting event where you child doesn’t play.
I am sitting on the sideline Saturday afternoon.
My kid is wearing his uniform. He appears ready to play. But when the rest of the team breaks the huddle and takes the field, he goes back to the bench.
He’s like the ant that lost his way to the picnic basket.
He goes to the end of the bench and sits alone. If this were a Scorsese film, there would be a cold wind blowing through the side line and a hollow whisper of angst.
I wish he would go in, I wish he would play, I wish he could help his mates.
Instead, he sits there and I root for 11 other kids, none of whom bear my name.
Why is he a hermit crab of isolation? He’s been sick with the flu. His body aches, he looks like rancid mayonnaise.
He was brave enough to suit up and drive the hour to the field. He didn’t complain. In fact, he never uttered a word. He was quiet like an under taker in a Clint Eastwood western. That should have been a tell tale sign.
Why I thought he might play is beyond me.
It’s not like I’m rooting for the Dallas Cowboys, or the New York Yankees and the outcome has no real baring on my life.
I’m a part of this team. I know the parents. I like the parents. The players are my kid’s friends off the pitch. I pay a bundle of money for him to be on this field and play this game.
Today he is sick, unable to help defeat the other team which is tearing us apart like a lion eating raw meat.
I watch from 50 yards away as the coach gets him to stand and test his aching body. He runs awkwardly like a deer that has just been struck by a moving van.
He is usually graceful and sprightly. From this vantage point he looks like a kid who needs to sit back down and be a cheer leader.
24 hours earlier, he was curled on the floor moaning silently. Today for the first time he ate. He was able to hold down Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes a spoonful at a time, but running for 70 minutes?
Not today boss.
Even though my brain told me this would be the case, even though my senses knew he would probably see little to no playing time, I am still frustrated.
At the end of the match, our boys are decimated. They are the little subway cars that Godzilla stomps with reckless abandon.
The coach came off the field, gathered the parents and the kids and laid it out.
He told us that he was proud of the team’s efforts, but he was also taking the blame for a team that at times didn’t have the eye of the tiger.
I was sad that my son didn’t play.
Would he have made a difference? Maybe.
He will get better. The team will continue to grow. There’s always tomorrow, there’s always another game.
But days like today are tough to watch.
And that is crazy.™