sports
When a world-class athlete who's won the World Cup twice, the world championship twice, and has three Olympic gold medals and a bronze -- when this guy stops by your grandma's house, you get him to sign anything you can find.
And why might this guy drop by your grandma's house? Because your grandma is his aunt,
making you his second cousin. I think. Some kind of cousin.
The Girl finished her summer volleyball season tonight by winning the grass championship for her age group. Her partner was a young lady she met while playing club ball this summer and with whom she immediately bonded. Birds of a feather and all that.
She was also my student last year, which made for some amusing situations.
"What are you doing, M?" I might ask when the team was taking a break between games.
"Studying for your test, Mr. Scott."
When Papa was in his late thirties or early forties (I can’t really remember), we had a family membership at the local YMCA, and he liked to play basketball. He didn’t like playing with men his age — too slow. He played with the twenty- and twenty-one-year-olds. It was hard and aggressive, and while I can’t really remember how good Papa was at basketball, I do remember how tenacious he was, how he never gave up.
One time he was breaking for the basket, forcing his way through a couple of defenders, when he leaped, shot, landed on his ankle at an angle, and fell in agony with a snap that everyone heard.
As Papa lay there on the floor, rolling about in agony, one of the other players leaned into the group huddled about him and said, “If it’s any consolation to you, sir, you made the basket.”
Tonight, L made a block that won the point but resulted in an ankle injury. A young lady on her team told her, “But L, you won the point.”
E had his first swim meet today. The team’s first meet was last week, but in classic E fashion, he wanted to go check one out before participating. For today’s meet, he agreed to swim one event: 25 freestyle. “I hate backstroke, and I really don’t know how to do breaststroke,” he reasoned. “And butterfly…” His voice trailed off to indicate it was a fantasy.
Since I’m finally able to find a little time with him at the pool, we spent a little time there these last two mornings working on improving his stroke. His kick was just knee action, which resulted in a lot of splash and very little propulsion. He sunk his chin into his chest, creating a large surface to plow through the water. He wiggled his upper body from side to side to compensate for his stroke rather than rotating his shoulders along his verticle (when standing of course) axis. All this combined resulted in a very inefficient stroke, so we worked to improve that a bit.
His event had three heats today, and he was in the last heat. I could tell as heat two prepared to go that he was nervous, having serious second thoughts about the whole project.
I’m fairly certain that if I’d walked over then and asked if he wanted just to ditch the whole thing, he would have enthusiastically agreed.
I thought he might be worried about the crowd. “I don’t like the idea of doing something I’m not very good at in front of so many people,” he confided in me this morning.
I thought he might be worried about coming in dead last. I feared he would: he really doesn’t have much swimming experience other than playing around, and some of those kids his age have clearly been swimming competitively for years.
I thought he might be worried about the starting blocks: I didn’t know how many times he’s used them, and to my knowledge, he hadn’t used them at all this summer.
It turns out, though, that he was most worried about being disqualified. “A and O told me that if you pull your head straight out of the water to get a breath instead of turning to the side, you’ll get DQ’ed,” he explained. “I really didn’t want to get DQ’ed.”
I assured him that was not the case even though it could very well be the case. “Whatever the case,” I thought to myself, “we’ll never know if he gets DQ’ed unless he’s a contender for one of the higher places.” In the end, he got second place in his heat. Granted, there were only two swimmers, but we laughed about that. “I’m just proud of you for conquering this fear,” I told him.
“Thank you,” he smiled, hugging me and telling me probably for the 100th time today, “I love you, Daddy.”
Both the kids had tournaments this weekend. The Girl's tournament was outside Atlanta, and it was her first time in competitive sand volleyball.
"How'd it go?" I asked.
"I got sand in my mouth," was the first impression.
The Boy's tournament was local. They made it to the semifinals then lost.
"We should have won" was the sentiment. How to get him to accept "win some, lose some" and still have the fire in the belly?
Today I got to watch E play soccer for CESA (Carolina Elite Soccer Academy) for the first time. His first game was a couple of weeks ago, but L and I were in Knoxville for a volleyball tournament. Last week's game got rained out, so this was the first time I got to watch him play.
In the first half, he played for about half the time as a defensive player. He was a little less aggressive than some of the other boys, but he soon gained some confidence and went after the ball.
In the second half, the coach put him in as an offensive player. He had one break and pulled back for some odd reason, turning to look (or so it seemed to me) to see if he had any backup. But he was alone, and ahead of all the defenders.
I meant to talk to him about what happened, but we never did.
The last Sunday of the month means only one thing: Polish Mass. Of course, it’s only been Polish Mass in name and spirit for several years now. The local parish priest conducts the Mass, and he’s from Columbia. He’s learned a little Polish for the Mass itself, but otherwise, he’s a complete non-Polish-speaker. The “Polish Mass” part comes from the community that gathers.
This week, though, there was a little something different: the new parish center, complete with gymnasium, is now open. Several families headed over after Mass to try it out.
