Follow-up: Trials, Tribulations, and Tryouts

A few days ago, I posted something about my son’s tryout for the high school soccer team. It was a messy emotional upchuck. I apologize for that. However, having now pulled you in to my turbulent swirl of dadly emotions, I figured I owed you a postscript. Or maybe I just needed to write one for the same reasons I wrote that first post: to get it all out.

This whole experience of being a father to my son, I feel it deeply. With big love comes big feelings; and with big feelings comes exposure and sometimes hurt. Those are the terms of the deal though.

To get to be present for your kid’s greatest joys, you have to be present through their heartaches. You have to be willing to show up at the table every day happy to eat no matter what’s on the menu. Since the day my son was born, I’ve had a spoon in my pocket. I’m here for every bowl. Even the ones that don’t taste particularly great. Sometimes that’s a lot. And sometimes I write about it for no other reason than because out is better than in. This is probably one of those times.

When we last off, my son was heading to the final session of a three-day tryout which had been a crushing shitshow from the jump. It had been over before it started. Unbeknownst to us, my son had never had a chance. Still, he was determined to go to the final session and give it his best even if futile. And that’s what he did.

In the first draft of this entry, here is where I exhausted 800 words on the events themselves. It was well written enough to keep and made for a decent story, but the truth is that the events just aren’t all that important, and all of those words would have left me with too little room to cover what matters, so I am just going to cut to the chase:

My son didn’t make the team. Neither of us was surprised.

He wasn’t cut after Day 3 though. The cut we were sure he wouldn’t get past? Well, he survived that one. Then he got cut the next day. It was a carbon copy of last year. The coach kept the kids on the bubble under maximum duress with threats of Day 3 cuts all week. Then he cut only a few kids that day; gave the rest what felt like a reprieve; and then turned around and cut them over the next couple days. It was stupid and shitty – and apparently it’s his shtick.

Thursday morning, only twelve hours after surving the first cuts, I knew my son had been cut the minute I heard the coach call his name. I didn’t need to hear what was said. I knew as I watched him walk over to the coach, nod a couple times, shake the coach’s hand, and walk away. I knew as I watched him walk to the sideline to pick up his backpack that he was going to walk off the field as the other kids lingered.

I didn’t need to see him walk through the gate. I had already pulled up by the time he got there.

My son just got in without a word. I said quietly “I’m sorry...” and that was it.

I put the car in ‘drive’ and pulled out of the lot. It was only then that my son let it all out for a couple minutes.

All of that work and determination… all of that hurt and disappointment… it is a lot to bear. Whether you are 15 or 50, it is a lot to bear. Sometimes the emotions just bubble over. They should. And they did.

It is painfully hard to see your child deeply upset… wounded… hurting. It is hard. It makes you feel agonizingly helpless. It is an absolute shit sandwich… but it beats the absolute hell out of knowing they are overwhelmed with tough feelings without showing it. That’s when it gets dangerous. When the hurt boils but doesn’t vent, that’s when you should worry. You can get to sleep at night after seeing your child cry. You should sleep lightly when they don’t show their pain at times when you yourself had a hard time not crying for them.

Out is better than in.

Seeing my son’s grief hurt. Seeing him let it out let me know he’d be okay.

After we had been in the car for a while, I asked him “How did you do today? Putting aside the outcome… how do you think you played?”

“Not great.” he said. “I hurt my back about halfway through but couldn’t sit out because I was going to get cut.”

He had pulled a muscle. It was probably a combination of 1) too much exertion, 2) too little rest between sessions, and 3) too much stress and pressure. He was in pain. Physical pain. It was just a strain. It would heal. But it has been a few days now and he’s still wincing gingerly around the house. He wouldn’t have been able to make the next day’s session even if he hadn’t been cut.

His back had affected him the last day. Other things had affected him the others. It had been obvious and visible. He hadn’t looked like himself. As a result, when I first started thinking about this follow-up, in my mental draft, I had planned on writing “He wasn’t at his best.” Meaning “He hadn’t played his best soccer.” He hadn’t. That statement though, those words - “He wasn’t at his best.” – they just don’t fit how I feel… how I see it.

I think my son was at his best this week.

He showed up focused and ready for something he had worked toward. He was determined. He competed with heart and passion. He didn’t let setbacks stop him or break him down. When it was likely futile and I had expressly said I would understand if he wanted to bail out, he insisted on showing up and giving it his best effort anyway.

I had given him an out. He had opted to ignore me. And yet, ironically, that left me feeling so very listened to, it warmed my damn soul.

Whenever there have been dramas in my son’s life – conflicts, frustrations, mistreatments – which left him upset and forced to choose a response, I’ve parroted a single mantra:

“It is better to feel proud of how you acted than justified for it.”

Do whatever it is that will leave you proud of how you navigated the situation. That feeling you get to keep. Justification has a short shelf-life. Pride lasts. It makes you like the person you see in the mirror – and you’re going to see that person every day forever.

On the drive home after he had been cut, I ended up taking us out onto a highway and then off into the country to just give him some time to breathe and process and settle. Along the way, I told him that while I was sorry he was so upset, it was entirely normal and natural that he would be. He had reason to be, and therefore I was glad he was.

I told him that if I had been given a chance when he was little to pick qualities I wanted him to have when he grew up – things which couldn’t be taught - high on that list would be him being an emotional person. A feeling, sensitive, emotional person. Someone who pours their heart into things they care about and feels it deeply when they go their way - even though that comes with also feeling it deeply when they don’t.

Big feelings are the product of big hearts. I told him I’m glad he has one. I am. It positions him to feel life and form close relationships and empathize and care and love and be loved.

By the end of our drive, he was ready to move on to the moving on. So, we went to the gym and sat in the jacuzzi together for a while to give his aching back a soak and then went to the diner for a late breakfast. He ordered the exact same thing he has ordered every other time we’ve gone over the past few months: three scrambled eggs and french toast with a side of bacon.

When our food came, he ate his. Then he ate half of my rye toast. I always leave a piece or two for him. He always eats it. It is just the ordinary way of the world. It is so regular and routine that on most days, it doesn’t get much notice.

On Thursday though, only a few hours after he had been cut from a team he had really wanted to make, I had been watching a little more closely.

Those two pieces of rye were a canary in a toast mine.

Want to know how a teen boy is doing emotionally? How they’re really doing? Keep an eye on their appetite.

My son was alright. I knew he was. I knew he would be. He’s a willow, that kid. Bends but doesn’t break. Resilient as hell while still feeling his feelings.

To me, that is strength. Being able to carry your feelings and then carry on and recover when pierced.

As a kid, I was armored. My son is healthier for not needing to be.

After breakfast, the conversation drifted from topic to topic. My son just got his schedule for the year. He didn’t get the classes he wanted. He wants more challenge in math and history and Spanish. He said he was going to call his guidance counselor.

I told him I could apply some pressure there too if needed.

He said “Yeah, I know.”

And in that two-line exchange was this entire week reduced to a microcosm.

I was telling my son that I’m here to support him.

He was telling me he’s confident and capable and independent and will be just fine.

I know he will. I’ve watched that kid bend but not break his whole life.

I was always so proud of his resilience as if it somehow reflected on how I was raising him. Now, I admire it. I marvel at it. It is a lightweight strength. It keeps him upright through most storms and helps him quickly back to his feet after the worst of them. This week was a bit of a hurricane. I was worried my son might get a little blown over by it. He never even lost his balance.

Someday when he is older, he’ll look back at this week with a different perspective. Gone will be the fresh sting of having not made a team. In its place will be a recollection of how much he wanted it, how hard he tried, and how many things got in the way. He’ll remember the disappointment but without the pain of it.

The thing he will remember about Thursday is getting cut. What he probably won’t remember is what I said to him after. How I felt. How I explained it. To be honest, I’m not sure how much of that he even heard.

I told him that, in my eyes, he was at his best this week.

I told him what I saw in him this week. Who he is. How he carries himself. I told him how much I respected and admired his conviction and character and effort. I told him how proud of him I am. Am. In the present tense. Not just on Thursday or the three days prior. Yesterday. Today. Everyday.

Those aren’t the kinds of things a teenager can really take in fresh after a disappointment.

And I know they weren’t things my son could even fully hear from me last week.

But maybe someday down the road…

Maybe he’ll read this.

I love ya, kid.

I’m proud of you.