Teaming up

 

We are here in Minneapolis, a cadre of volleyball parents from Texas, cheering on our sons at the 2011 USVA Junior National Volleyball Championships.

Where we live, boys' volleyball is a bit of an oxymoron, a head-scratcher. "Boys?" people ask. "I never think of boys playing volleyball."

But ours do. They live it, and they breathe it, and they have worked amazingly hard to get here. They are stunning and passionate players, their prowess even more pronounced in competitions such as these. They are playing against teams from California and Florida and Puerto Rico -- against boys who grow up playing this game that has so engulfed my Charlie and his teammates -- and holding their own with aplomb and grace.

On a glorious July 4 morning, I sit in the lobby of the Minneapolis Convention Center, finishing my oatmeal from Starbucks before entering the cacophony of referees' whistles and spectators' cheers. A  white-haired man joins me; he tells me his two grandsons, whom he's here to watch, play in California.

"Ah, California!" I say. "When we see that's where a team we're playing is from, we quake a little in or boots."

"They've always played," he says. "My daughter-in-law strung up a net outside, and they play all day long."

I wish him luck, then stand to leave. I show the attendant at the door the red wrist band that identifies me as a paying patron, and carry my coffee to Court 14. Our boys are playing three matches here -- the first at 9, followed by others at 10 and noon.

At home, winning is almost a given. Here, although the boys are smart and they are skilled, as passionate about the game as they are to one another, it's a bit of a tightrope. Every team is here because they are better than good; every team believes that no matter what their ranking,  they stand a chance.

We are ranked 23rd among the 17-year-old players. Our opponents this day are ranked 8th and 4th; I didn't even see what the kids from Puerto Rico are ranked, but they are virtually unstoppable.

Still, we believe; what choice do we have? So we moms do what we can to make our sons' dreams come true and, in the process, their dreams turn into our own. One day, we wear white shirts with our sons' names and numbers and maybe a photo ironed on them. On another, we wear black t-shirts emblazoned in red with our team name, HIGH INTENSITY.

One mom made signs for us to hold, each a letter spelling out T-E-X-A-S-!. Another brought red and white pompons for us to wave.

We scream and we shout so much that now, as the tournament draws to a close, my voice is hard to understand, raw from yelling.Our calls run an emotional gamut. "Get mad!" we scream, followed seconds later by, "Have fun!" and "Wipe those smiles off their faces!"

"Lighten up!" we juxtapose with "Hang tough!"

We get scared and we get silly, screaming "Remember the Alamo!" when our team is losing, and "Channel the Mavs!" -- hoping the momentum which propelled Dirk Nowitzki in many a fourth-quarter playoff game will somehow rub off on them.

At one point, a mom turns to me and says, "I don't even know what I'm saying!"

In blinks of an eye as our boys play, I find myself stepping back or floating overhead,  holding in my heart all that matters right this very second, and just how important these moments and these games are. At the same time, I am looking through the boys' eyes a year, two years, a decade ahead -- looking back and remembering these precious days as a time when passion and teamwork were everything, when success was measured in spikes and blocks, in games and matches and post game how-can-we-do-better-next-time? discussions.

When your kids are young and just starting to play sports, you recite the parental mantra: "It's not whether you win or lose; it's how you play the game." As they get older, they learn, and you let them start realizing, that winning is great. Losing? Not so much.


Yet. Yet. Yet. Watching our boys -- their efforts; their attitude; the way they keep talking each other up; the way they put an arm around whoever might have be kicking himself for letting the ball fly out of bounds or hit the ground; their breathtaking and, in the end, heart-twisting effort --  you realize this:

Yes, winning is very, very very nice. But sometimes, it's exceeded only by -- or at least runs neck-and-neck with -- how you play the game.

Exercising Mom's options

My mother is, quite frankly, rather adorable. When she reads that, she'll say, "Oh, honey, I wish you wouldn't say that."

But she is. She is sparkly and sunny, with energy and a figure that women one-fourth her age (she's 80) wouldn't mind having. For years, she was a primo lingerie salesperson at a department store in Paris, Texas, a 30-minute drive from where she and my dad were living. During the three days a week she worked, she wore a pedometer. Most days, she'd surpass the 10,000-step mark, meaning she walked at least five miles.

Since she and Dad moved back to Dallas, though, she hasn't been walking as much. Until my dad is more mobile, she spends most of her time with him. But since she is so spry and so spirited, and because I know first-hand the multi-layered benefits of exercise, I decided to make it my mission to get her moving.

So I bought her some no-cotton-moisture-wicking socks and a pair of tennies at Target. Then I picked her up and we headed to the Lake Highlands Family YMCA and her appointment with Clint Elliott, fitness trainer extraordinaire (and really nice guy).  He asked Mom a variety of questions about her hobbies (gardening); her fitness goals (not sure; be stronger and just move more); what she likes to do (swim, though she hasn't in years).

Then Mom, being Mom, had to know more about Clint: What got him into fitness? Had he ever been to YMCA of the Rockies (a Barker- family favorite place)?

Clint started Mom off on the treadmill for about five minutes. I, the over-eager daughter, held my tongue, which would have suggested Mom take regular-size steps and walk her normal brisk pace. But she did what was comfortable, and thus, correct.

Then it was on to two leg machines, the names of which, yes, I should know. On one, she put her legs against a panel and pushed; the other, she put them behind a roller and lifted them.

"Oooh," Mom said, "I can feel this in my thighs."

"You may be sore tomorrow," Clint said.

"I hope so," Mom said. "I''ll feel like I accomplished something."

She did some arm exercises (on machines I also should know the names of), and then stood on a squishy round something-or-other. She did a pretty darned good job of staying vertical; Clint said she had "excellent balance." 

For the cool-down part of Mom's workout, she stepped on the treadmill again. This time, she felt more confident. She upped the speed a bit, and raised the incline to 1.0 percent. She walked about five minutes, then said she thought she'd better stop.

We stayed for at least an hour. As we left, Mom said said she'd like to come back. Clint suggested next week, and asked when we'd both be available. I said I didn't think I needed to be there. Without a moment's hesitation, Mom agreed.


So next Wednesday at 1:30 p.m., while I'm sitting at my desk staring at a computer screen, Mom will be exercising her body, clearing her mind, strengthening her already-strong spirit. And bringing herself closer to a goal I so-casually-mentioned when we talked to Clint: Walking a 5-K with her third-born.

 

Icing on the cake (or at least the sidewalk)

On this snow day, my son is sprawled on a chair that lends itself to sprawling. In one hand he holds the remote for the TV; in the other he holds his Game Boy. I look closely, seeing neither a pair of mittens nor a sled within reach. He has yet to ask me for a carrot, or a stovepipe hat, or bits of coal that could double as buttons.

I walk by him, and oh-so-lovingly say, "Go make a snowman."

He is still in his PJs, hours after the automated phone call from his school told us classes were cancelled, hours after he went back to sleep and woke up again, hours after he ate his first bowl of cereal. He has about as much intention of going outside as he does cleaning his room, or getting dressed, or reading for pleasure.

Not that I particularly blame him. The snow is blowing parallel to the ground, and when I opened the door to let the dog out, I felt the first stages of frostbite. Someone on the radio described the effect of the snow plus wind as "feeling like tiny arrows on your skin."

Admittedly, I know this first-hand, having been outside and (I'm almost embarrassed to add) gone for a run. Very very slow, but a run nonetheless.

I do wonder though, when did snow days stop being snowman days? Remember the magic of waking up and your feet are cold when they touch the floor? You look outside and see the slightest whisper of snow on the lawn and have the teeniest of flashes thinking....what if? You're shivering a little -- with cold or optimistic anticipation, who knows?

You smell the familiar smell of almost-burned toast and go into the kitchen to eat your oatmeal. The radio is on and the announcer is calling out the school closings. They're in alphabetical order, and if you never paid attention to your ABCs, you can bet you do right now. Then you hear it. Your school. Closed. All day long. You run into the living room and the good news is confirmed at the bottom of the TV screen.

You throw on your itchy warm clothes, call your friend two doors down and meet her in the front yard of the house between each of yours. You're freezing, but laughing like hyenas and trying to gather enough snow in your wet mittens to make a snowball to push down her turtleneck sweater.

At noon, you burn the roof of your mouth gulping Campbell's tomato soup and wolfing down grilled-cheese sandwiches. You rush back outside, and though there's hardly any accumulation, you snatch up what snow you can -- practically as it drops from the sky -- determined to build a snowman. One that wobbles on the brown grass, one that will be gone by this time tomorrow.

Months pass, then years then decades. Here I am in my kitchen, with no intention of going outside again today. I can look out the window, though, and still see that brown-flecked snowman. I turn my head and -- still in the den, still sprawled on the chair -- see my pajama-clad son, now on his belly with his computer in front of him. 

He's doing whatever he wants to do today, just as my friend and I did years and years ago. A snow day will always be a snow day -- always magical, always remembered -- even if you never step foot outside.

Believing in Shadow

I woke up New Year's Eve morning at 5:15 to meet up at 6 with a dozen people I didn't know to look for a greyhound that few (if any) of us had ever seen. In one hand, we held flashlights to shine across fields and behind bushes. In one pocket, we'd put treats our own dogs liked, hoping the missing girl would as well.


In another pocket or around our necks, we each had an extra leash. Because when you're looking for a scared and skittish dog -- one who had been mistreated in the past by the antithesis of the two-legged beings who were looking for her -- you have to believe in the mightiest of outcomes.

Most of us had our own dogs with us, too. We reasoned that Shadow, the moniker given this black, zipper-thin beauty, would be more comfortable seeing her own kind than thinking she was being pursued by the very creatures who had been so cruel.

I brought Newman, one of our foster dogs. Because he had once been a stray, I thought of him as a talisman of sorts, a magnet that would somehow lure Shadow out; a soul mate who would know what she was thinking, and could sense where she might hide. Plus, I may have harbored the hope that his presence would somehow show her that life can be more the life she had known.

The morning was beautiful. When I'd walked out the front door, the rain had just begun pouring down. But by the time we fanned out onto the area where Shadow had last been spotted, we could see the moon, the clouds, the waning stars. We were told to be quiet, and if we saw her to sit down, to avoid eye contact, to act bored. Then as she came closer, we could very gently put the leash on her.

But we didn't see her. So Newman and I got back in the car. We drove through the neighborhoods a bit, and I was overwhelmed at all the places she could be. When we got home, I gave Newman one of the bones I'd intended for Shadow. Then I went for a run, all the while looking looking looking.

My best friend was in town for a rare visit, and called when I'd finished running. I picked her up at her parents' house. We went for coffee, got manicures, walked through a few stores. At our last stop before lunch, I checked my email and saw the news about Shadow. She had run into traffic, miles from her foster home. She had been hit by a car, and she died. Even hours later -- even now -- every time I think of how scared she was and what she endured and what she never knew, I start to cry.

Yet when I listen closely, I hear whisperings -- not only of sorrow, but of lessons gleaned from Shadow. Lessons that came with a horrible price, and that I would trade in an instant for her to be alive, and loved, and safe. Yet lessons that, for me at least, are good to think about for the year ahead. They're very simple, really, and I will honor the brevity of her life by keeping them brief as well.

They are these:
To trust.
To try not to be afraid.
To believe -- even though and especially when it seems ridiculous to do so -- that somebody believes in you.

Godspeed, sweet Shadow. May warm arms engulf you, tasty treats fill your stomach, and flashlights and stars be guiding you home. 

Making a pact

The last time I ran in a race was the Turkey Trot, 13 months ago. I didn't think I missed racing; I've rather enjoyed just running for the sake of running.

But on Sunday, reading about the Dallas White Rock Marathon; watching it on TV in my dad's rehab room while he was in physical therapy; pondering the route to take my son to Sunday school to avoid marathon traffic, I found myself feeling a bit sentimental.

The day was glorious, sunny and cool and perfect. Plus my dear friend Laura was running the anchor leg of her relay team. What better reasons to head to Swiss Avenue to look for Laura and cheer her (and anyone else) on. I asked my son if he'd go with me. He didn't hesitate.

"Sure," he said.

I have run one marathon: Austin in 2007. I remember it in snippets: The sun rising as the starting gun went off. Walking through water stops and reluctantly resuming running. Crossing the finish line and eating chicken-noodle soup ladled out by kind volunteers.

I remember the training as grueling, particularly runs on Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve: twice around White Rock Lake in the windy sleet. So when I saw the runners on Sunday, I yelled and cheered because I knew what they were going through, and how hard they worked to get there. I knew that the three miles they had left to run probably seemed at times like 300, though during training, three became little more than the snap of a finger.

During my marathon, I was so appreciative of the bands that played, of the people who rang cowbells, of the spectators who looked at my racing bib and called me by name. With each of those memories, I could feel my smile getting bigger, my cheering more crazed, my tears closer to the surface than I would have imagined.

At first, Charlie just followed me -- not cheering; looking shyly at the runners -- as we made our way down Swiss Avenue, scanning the street for Laura. After a few minutes, when I'd turn to look at him, he smiled his big smile and looked me in the eye.

"I want to do this," he said.

Laura told me later that she heard Charlie's voice before she saw me. After she passed us, he and I headed up Swiss toward the side street where our car was parked. He was yelling by then, telling runners to stay strong, to stay focused. We didn't leave right away; instead, we stood on a corner, straining through sunlight to see names on bibs.

"I really want to do this," he said again.

"OK," I said. "Next year. Should we do the full or the half?"

"The full," he said. "Maybe we can each run half of it. Do you want to go first or last?"

"First," I said. "I get jittery anyway; I'd be a wreck if I had to wait for you to finish before I could start."

"I'm not sure when I can train though," he said, thinking about volleyball practice, P.E., track.

"We'll figure it out," I said. "Let's do this. Let's make a pact."

"OK," he said.

"Remember this, Charlie," I said. "Remember this minute, right now. Remember how good it feels, how much we want to do this."


We didn't hook pinkies or spit on the ground or sign a contract. I just put my arm through his as we walked  to the car.