Matching Tracksuits

The Boy wanted waffles for breakfast; K, being the amazing woman she is, agreed to make waffles as she talked to her mother. After breakfast, he wanted to do an experiment. What exactly he wanted to do was not clear. The idea at first was to mix various things together and see what happened. Instead, we steered him to a chemistry experiment, or rather he steered himself. Can’t remember exactly how it moved from “I want to mix x, y, and z” to “Let’s put an egg in vinegar,” but it seemed a less messy procedure.

At first, he wanted just to drop a raw egg into vinegar, but after I explained the resulting mess, he agreed to the more traditional hard-boiled egg version of the procedure. It always surprises me how reasonable he can be for a six-year-old: sometimes, it’s just a matter of explaining why x is not the best idea or why y would work better and he’s more than willing to try the other way.

After lunch, we headed to the YMCA for the Boy’s first basketball game. He was very nervous on the way there, which was more than understandable: he’d had one practice and never actually played in a game. Since we don’t really watch sports, he’d never even seen a game to my knowledge.

It turned out there was nothing to worry about: YMCA basketball for this age group is just like YMCA soccer: the coach was on the court at all times, encouraging them, guiding them, directing them. Rules like walking and double-dribbling disappeared: one boy went charging down the court holding the ball, and the referee, who was phenomenally helpful and encouraging herself (a couple of times, she actually picked kids up and moved them to more advantageous spots, much to the delight of parents and onlookers), would simply run beside him and say, “You have to dribble! Try to dribble!”

The team had ten players, and groups of five swapped out every four minutes. (The quarters were eight minutes.) During the swap, the teams stood opposite each other and the coaches had each player point to the opposing player who was “their man.” Gender and age didn’t matter: everyone picked “their man.” When play began, the coaches reminded their players, “No, no, you need to be with Red Shoes, over there. Go guard Red Shoes.”

The Boy did well on defense, but offense was another story. He played like he used to play soccer: just running around, not really sure where he was supposed to go, what he was supposed to be doing. One little boy on our team had a lot of experience, and everyone, seeing his confidence, tried to get the ball to him. But then, on a missed shot, the Boy took the rebound and put it back up.

It bounced around the rim for a while and then finally fell through.

With a start like that, it’s official: the Boy now loves basketball.

Spring in the south is a tease: we’ll have a week of theoretically unseasonably warm weather (mid-seventies or even a bit higher) and then drop back down to the forties and fifties for a week. I guess we all should get used to it, but we never really do. Every year, we have this warm spell and become convinced that this time — this time — it will be different. K gets out a few spring clothes, packs up a few of the winter clothes, and then the next week, we’re all wondering why we were so naive.

That’s what we had this week: cool, cool temperatures and even some rain after a week of warmth. So this weekend, with its sunny cool weather, has been a joy. We spent yesterday working outside; we spent this afternoon playing outside. Well, not entirely. I had to do some school planning and a bit of grading, and K was in the kitchen for a while.

Our hearts, at least, were outside when our bodies couldn’t be. Just before heading to Nana’s and Papa’s for Sunday dinner, the Boy decided he wanted to play football. During our scout meeting today, someone brought up football, and though we never watch it at our house and therefore never discuss it and therefore never expose our children to it, the Boy has absorbed enough background knowledge at school that he’s keen to play.

He asks if he can play on a team like the neighbor across the street. Thinking of the growing scientific certainty regarding the dangers to the brain the football presents, I tell him, “No, sorry buddy. There’s just no way to make it safe.”

“Well, little kids don’t hit very hard,” he tries to explain.

As a happy compromise, we toss the ball with him occasionally.

At scouts today, they played kickball, and because we don’t expose our kids to baseball either, E had only the vaguest notion of how to play even when the den leader explained that it’s just like baseball. K sometimes worries that by not exposing the kids to sports because we’re not particularly interested in watching them (except for ski jumping — that’s a given when you’re Kamil Stoch’s first cousin), we’re somehow short-changing our kids. They don’t fit in with the other kids, and the other kids notice — that’s the logic.

Since I grew up not fitting in for various other reasons, I find myself thinking, “There are worse things than not fitting in.” It’s a survivable dilemma. What doesn’t kill them makes the strong. Some such nonsense.

But even if we wanted — really wanted — to expose our kids to sports like football and baseball, we don’t have the time for it. I’m always amazed at people in the area who go to every single Clemson game during football season, thinking, “Don’t you guys have any obligations on Saturdays?” We’re too busy in the fall working outside and inside (mainly my school work) to make football viewing a possibility, and baseball in the spring would be only slightly better.

So our kids go to school lacking certain knowledge to make conversation of a certain type possible. In reality it really doesn’t affect L because she too is not interested in football (to continue using the example above). The Boy, though, is, and his friends talk about it from time to time.

Maybe as spring unfolds, we’ll try to watch some baseball together, perhaps to watch the local minor league team play a time or two…