Playing it forward

Photo by David Andrews

by Alison Lebovitz

After my siblings and I were all married, my mother spent the next few years longing for those phone calls that would convey those four little words she and my father were dying to hear – “We’re having a baby!” And now that my parents have nine grandchildren under their belts, it was only a matter of time before one of their grandkids called to share those four little words my mother never wanted to hear – “Nini, I’m playing football.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” my mother beckoned into the phone, as our 10-year-old, Arthur, excitedly told her the news.” He repeated, “I’m playing football, Nini! Isn’t that awesome?” My mother quickly pleaded, “Football? But isn’t that the sport where they knock you down and beat you up? What happened to tennis, Honey?” By that time Arthur had already handed the phone to me and I had to calmly explain to my mother that yes, it was true, her precious progeny would soon be passing the pigskin.

To be fair, this was a unilateral decision in my household – made by my husband. It’s not that I am against football. In elementary school I was actually one of the only girls who would play co-ed touch football during recess – and I was a pretty fierce competitor. But when it comes to our fifth grader, we’re talking the real deal – full pads, mouth guards, tackles and all. As the mother of three boys, I should have anticipated this moment as being inevitable, but as the daughter of a mother who constantly worries, I too had secretly hoped this day would never come.

My husband played football when he was in elementary school and the stories of his triumphs and the days when he was known as “Crazy Legs” are legendary in our home. He insisted that football is a rite of passage and would be good for our son. “It’s a great team sport, it will help build his endurance and his confidence, and it will make him into a man.” It will make him into a man? He’s only 10. Can’t that wait until his Bar Mitzvah?

Of course, football started out just as tough and traumatic as I had imagined – the struggles, the agony, the tears – and that was just a trip to the sporting goods store to buy his helmet. I could only imagine what a day on the field would be like.

Football practices were pretty grueling and consisted of drills that I can only compare to Army boot camp training exercises. Arthur came home with a new set of bruises after each one, which gave him immediate street cred with his two brothers. As they oohed and awed at the sight of new black and blue marks each week, I would merely close my eyes, click my heels and start repeating, “There’s no sport like tennis, there’s no sport like tennis…”

From the first game I was immediately comforted by the stands full of other anxious parents who often served as a support group as much as a cheering section. And even though our team wasn’t exactly the best in the league, I was constantly inspired by the obvious camaraderie between the boys and the sense of accomplishment they felt after every small success or completed play on the field. Even after a big loss, our son was always so positive as he would recount the times when he and his team really shined and would always add, “It’s okay, we’ll get ‘em next time.”

The last game was here before we knew it, and it was the perfect way to end the season – a total shut out. And as soon as Arthur got into the car, he knew exactly whom he wanted to call to share the news.

“Nini, guess what? We won 22 to 0!” My mother exclaimed, “Baby Doll, I am so proud of you!” He replied, “Nini, I am not a Baby Doll.” So she said, “Well, how about my Sweetie Pie?” He said, “No, not Sweetie Pie, either.” She finally said, “Well if you’re not my Baby Doll and you’re not my Sweetie Pie, then what are you?” Arthur answered with those four little words my husband couldn’t wait to hear, “Nini, I’m a man.”

Looks like we won’t have to wait for his Bar Mitzvah after all.