Originally published on October 14, 2015
Jay started playing organized sports two years ago. Since then it’s been almost nothing but soccer: teams in the fall and spring, a week of camp in the summer, hours in the backyard, the two of us kicking back and forth.
Soccer is nearly all Jay knows of sports, but it’s new for me. The bins of sports gear in our houses growing up were filled with baseballs, gloves, basketballs, an odd football or two, all used in heavy rotation. It’s quite possible I’ve never once kicked a soccer ball with my dad.
So when I kick the ball with Jay, it’s with a sense of coming to a new place. As with coming to a new place, there is a feeling of possibility and excitement. As an athlete playing other sports, I peaked in early high school and drifted toward the bench after that. With Jay and soccer, it’s easy to imagine him having more success, in part because I don’t know enough about the progression of the sport to clearly imagine all the kids who might end up being bigger, faster, and more skilled than him.
Alongside this sense of possibility, there is also a sense of being out of place. I feel like this every time I make a clumsy left-footed kick or attempt to juggle and watch the ball fly hopelessly away. Standing across the yard from Jay, there is an undertone of masquerade. When I show him Messi highlight videos on YouTube, part of me feels insincere, like I’m trying to convince him of the value of something I don’t believe myself.
I find this feeling in other places, too. It mostly collects where I have ambitions for Jay and Wally. I have this idea that I’d like Jay to have a career in math or science. This says something about him, that he seems apt for that kind of thinking. This also says something about me. I had little interest in science until a few years ago, when I started talking to scientists in my work as a journalist and came to admire what they do. There’s nothing wrong with wanting your children to be things you’re not. It’s how we make progress by generations. And it feels fine to be in a new place when someone else is leading you there. But handing Jay and Wally my own new ideas and recent aspirations feels speculative and uncertain. In some ways I’d rather pass on what I know for sure, whatever that might be, and let them come to the rest on their own.
This feeling, of what it’s like to offer Jay and Wally things whose value I understand more in external terms than personal ones, came together for me this morning on our front yard. For the first time since the rain and flooding two weekends ago, Jay was going back to school, on a two-hour delayed start. This gave us some time to play together. The previous day I’d retrieved a pair of baseball gloves from the top shelf in the closet and Jay and I had played catch together for the second time ever. This morning he wanted to do it again.
As we walked outside the grass was still wet with dew and the sun was low in the sky so that on high throws, it blinded me through the trees. Jay stood a short ways from me, wearing the same glove I’d worn as a shortstop in Little League. It flopped on his hand. When I threw, I tried to throw to the side, so that if he missed, the ball wouldn’t hit him in the face. He did miss the ball, a lot, and each time would skip happily over to our neighbor’s yard to retrieve it. Yet a couple minutes before he had to shoulder his backpack and walk to school, we found a groove. One toss, two tosses, eight tosses, back and forth, the miracle of flight. That the ball could go from my hand through the air, to his glove, and back again, felt as improbable as doing the same thing with Jay that my dad had spent so much time doing with me.