Grief in sports is undoubtedly a minor form of grief. Even though some parents take it harder than others, at its core, it doesn’t involve anything as serious as an illness or a death. It may mean the end of a dream, a shift in our priorities, or a change in how we approach our child’s education—but is that really such a big deal? I experienced my son’s sports-related grief when he was four and a half years old. In fact, it was at that age that I realized that for my own happiness and his, I had to let go.
Even before we knew I was expecting a boy, my boyfriend and I already had our “foolproof” plan to “ensure” an easy, smooth-sailing adolescence (as if such a thing really existed). We were going to introduce our kids to sports as early as possible to instill in them the values of sharing, teamwork, achievement, perseverance, and healthy lifestyle habits.
Of course, when we found out our baby was a boy, our imaginations ran wild. I had nothing less than a future Sidney Crosby growing inside me. Before I’d even seen his little face, I was already looking up the age at which we could sign him up for hockey. Knowing all the sacrifices that would entail, I could already picture myself getting up at 6 a.m. every Saturday to freeze my butt off on the arena benches cheering on my champion. I was already planning the Christmas gifts (hockey gear) we’d ask Grandpa for—since he happens to work at a sports store. I was already imagining myself at every arena across the country and in the United States, cheering on my Canadiens player (no, I didn’t stop to think about the percentage of hockey players who actually make it to the NHL… a dream is a dream—you don’t spoil it with statistics!). Unfortunately, four and a half years later, I realized that despite all my efforts, despite all my good intentions, my son would never be an athlete.
When he was six months old, I signed him up for swimming lessons. It’s one of the first classes you can enroll a child in. Of course, it’s much more of a water-acclimation class than a real swimming technique class, but it was a first step toward getting him—and us, the parents—used to getting up on Saturday mornings for our kids’ activities. At the same time, if it can help prevent a drowning, what more could you ask for? My son wasn’t having any fun. He thought the water was cold, was afraid to put his head under, didn’t want to move his legs, and just let himself be pulled through the water. I didn’t give up—maybe he just didn’t like the water.
When he was two, I signed him up for a soccer class. I wanted him to run around to burn off his energy while learning to work with others, to have a common goal, and to learn what it means to win—as well as to lose (God knows that happens more often than not, and that it’s not exactly easy for some kids… including mine). He’d start running with his friends, but would lose interest after 10 minutes and prefer to count the blades of grass on the artificial turf. Oh well… I didn’t give up; maybe he was just too young.
At age 3, we were finally able to sign him up for skating lessons with the goal of eventually getting him into hockey—Dad’s and Grandpa’s favorite sport. This sport that demands so much from both parents and athletes, this sport that makes parents dream, that stresses out spectators, that makes fans cheer. This sport… that requires you to stand on skates! By the end of his 10 lessons (and a few practices with Dad), he was still having trouble just standing on his skates. Well… I didn’t give up; if it wasn’t hockey, maybe it would be soccer—lots of kids play that.
At age 4, back to soccer (after two karate classes that still didn’t work out—you can’t say we didn’t try), even “forcing” my boyfriend to be an assistant coach. I figured it would become their sport, their time of the week when they could grow closer by building their rapport, learning to listen to each other, and strengthening their bond—and that they’d motivate each other… After three or four sessions, neither my boyfriend nor my son wanted to go back to that darn soccer. That’s when I decided to give up on the idea that my son would be athletic.
The idea of giving up made my heart ache a little and called my parenting ideals into question, but I assure you I didn’t cry over it. My son is healthy; he’s handsome, smart, gentle, and kind; he shares; he says thank you (well, once in a while); I love him, and he loves me. Even though I can’t rely on my original parenting plan that included sports, I know I’ll find a way to guide him well with my values—but above all, with my love. And guess who doesn’t have to get up on Saturday mornings anymore…