Cheap Shots and No Morals

As life marches on through a spring time that's less enthusiastic to arrive than I am to have it here, my 12 year old is in the midst of his spring lacrosse season. It's a blast but I gotta tell ya, the competition beats anything we've endured in the past. The competing parents are also a completely new breed.

Now, lets establish first that few folks could top me in competitiveness. Lets say I like the feel of winning. Don't most? But when your son is on a younger team and your school has lost half its athletes to a new school that opened down the block, you get used to finding value in the level of play and that can-do spirit than you do in the final figures on the scoreboard. It's a building year, shall we say?

We don't have a goose-egg in the win column but we're about 50/50. We can edge out the teams from south of the city because they don't have nearly the programs that are in North Atlanta. But up here? Talk about some seriously dominant programs and teams. The coaches typically bark at the players in voices normally reserved for basic training. In the Marines.

One team in particular we played in a brutal game pretty early in the season. They are clearly one of the (if not the) top team in the area, and that's saying something when you remember the area is full of really good teams. We arrived on a balmy Saturday with the winding whipping 30 degree temps through their majestic wind tunnel of a stadium. And there, as Popsicles in the stands, we watched this team walk all over us 15 - 0. All the while their coach was still screaming at their players like they were the ones losing horribly. It wasn't enough that they were running up the score--they weren't doing it quickly enough. Apparently they needed to crush our spirits faster.

Best of all: they were on our schedule to play again. Super. At least the second game was farther into the season when our former motley crew had more time to play together and form some cohesiveness as a team (that team had played together for years under the same coach in addition to being a year older) and we had more practice to perfect some actual plays.

When we arrived for bout number two, this team was still undefeated and still a powerhouse. But our attitudes were great; the boys were actually excited to play this team again and at least show them that while they may have the age/size/experience advantage, we are not as dismal a team as we may have displayed originally. We went into the match up believing that if we could just put some points on the board, we'd consider that a win.

Our parents decided to show up to the 8:00 a.m. match with coffee, donuts, cow bells and big voices to show our boys some support no matter how big the Goliaths across the field were. And the game started with a bang as we racked up the first two goals, unanswered. We were more shocked than they were. But it was then that the other team realized this would be no lay-down encore and they turned up their game. For the remaining time, it was close. We even went up on them another time, winning at 6-5. But it became very physical, very quickly.

Chase had told me after the first sparring that the other players were real smack-talkers, uttering put-downs and crappy insults sprinkled liberally with four letter words muttered low enough for the recipient to hear but not for the refs or coaches. Classy. And this game, if anything, was worse. The team was clearly not used to being beaten or coming anywhere close to it, and their attitudes turned as sour as the looks on their coaches' faces with every goal we scored.

Mid-way through the first half, one of our defenders, a great athlete of Asian descent, got into a heated tussle with one of their players. They were both going after the ball on the sidelines at first but then the focus shifted from the ball to each other and it got ugly. I imagine the kid calling our player a "stupid Asian" probably sent him over the edge and as the refs pulled them apart, our kid ended up on his feet sooner and it was then that he saw--and took--the opportunity to get in the final shot with a kick to the gut.

Turns out, the parents of the opposing team don't like to see one of their kids get a kick to the stomach. This was completely uncalled for, no doubt. Way, way out of line. But it's also not like that was the only thing that happened in the skirmish. Name calling, pushing, shoving, punching, etc took place as the refs trotted over. But what happens last is what's remembered best and that kick was not good. Certainly far from a proud parenting moment, right? It's not like parents encourage their kids to be crappy on the field--at least we don't--but kids, like most, get caught up in the moment and sometimes, anger surpasses all other emotion. We were all stunned silent after that occurred.

The parents of the other team...not so much. "Nice morals!" one yelled. "Great sportsmanship!" "Oh you're a real class act." " You all must be so proud!" And the cat calls continued.

In the face of such an extreme act, we were contrite in the stands. But the longer they continued to insult our parenting and values, the more I boiled. Probably not the best idea to sit the rival teams side by side in the same stands but come on, you're questioning our morals when your middle schoolers know more creative uses of cuss words than I do? And issue racial epithets as they take more cheap shots than my Aunt Hilda on Swinging Oldies Night down at the VFW? Maybe it's that they're all so far up on their own moral high horse they can't hear their own kids resorting to underhandedness and foul mouths when they're in danger of losing a competition. Hmmm, you might even call that behavior... unsportsmanlike.


Our player in white getting pushed from behind: illegal.


Again, our kid in white...the one on the ground.

Meeting Noah

Recovering from the loss of my Sheltie Bailey is slow and sad, but life goes on and each day is easier. The minutes, hours, days right after losing Bailey was incredibly difficult. Her last days, the trip to the vet, and missing her consumed my every thought. For 14 years, part of what defined me was "dog owner." It was ingrained in me, part of my fabric. But now, I no longer was and it was a profound change. (No offense to Teddy the Beagle, but he is clearly my husband's dog.) So I felt...I don't know how else to say it...lost. Out of sorts.

Just two days after Bailey passed away, my family was scheduled to take our annual ski trip out west. What was the very last thing I felt like doing after losing my dog? If you said travel, ski, vacation, fly, pack a suitcase, try to have fun...you would be correct. But I certainly wasn't going to let my husband and son down so not going was not an option. Besides, I thought it'd probably be good to remove myself from the house where everywhere I looked reminded me of my pup.

Once we arrived, the change of atmosphere and scenery did do me good. Since I wouldn't have been with Bailey out in Colorado regardless, her absence wasn't as keenly felt. But even still, I never completely forget and though we were having a good time, everything was a little less cheery and fun.

We had four days of skiing and on the morning of the third, I sent Chase and John off to hit the slopes before me. It had snowed every blooming minute we'd been there so the skiing was challenging, the visibility was horrible, and my legs were screaming. To buy my legs a little rest before they revolted on me entirely, I offered to go ahead and make dinner for all of us so it'd be ready to go at the end of the day, assuring John and Chase they should head out for a few runs without me and I'd find them once I got on the mountain.

And that's what we did: they clamored out, barely remembering to shout a half-hearted "Are you sure you don't mind?" as they were already dressed and halfway down the stairs. So I whipped up my famous macaroni and cheese and after stalling for a little longer, I dressed in many layers and trudged to the nearest lift. There, I buckled into my boots, stepped into my skis, popped in my ipod and got ready to get in line when I heard him. "Are you solo?" I glanced over and realized this young boy was talking to me. I told him I was and together we shuffled to the lift and hopped on what is one of the longest chair rides on the mountain.

It's not uncommon to be riding up lifts with folks you don't know and to strike up casual conversation about where you're from, etc. My chair companion was a very personable boy and immediately began asking me questions: was this my first day out, was it my first time skiing, who was I there with, was I alone that particular day, where was I from, and on it went. He was so pleasant and I was inquiring the same info of him. His name was Noah, he was from Nebraska, 13 years old, in 7th grade, plays hockey, and he was there with his mother but alone on that particular day because his mother's friend was coming up from Denver to spend the day with her.

What a friendly, cool kid, I thought. "So since you're skiing all alone today," I proposed about six minutes into an eleven minute lift, "you could come ski with us if you'd like. I know my son would love to have someone his age to ski with."

"That'd be great," he told me. "Chase will be thrilled," I responded. "It's just the three of us this year but we usually bring a friend with us on trips since Chase is an only child--makes vacations a lot more fun for him. Are you also an only child?"

Since he was traveling with only his mother, I figured either he was or his siblings were too old or too young to be on such a trip. But his answer wasn't any of those explanations. It was one I was completely unprepared for: "Well," he said, "I am an only child now... My older brother just died last Friday."

I was stunned and whipped my head toward the young man beside me but reading facial expression was impossible thanks to the goggles and face shield that barred any glimpse of his features. "What do you mean, Noah?" I asked.

"My brother," he said, "he was 15--he always helped my uncle with his snow-blowing business. But when he went to wake him up last Friday, he just didn't wake up. We don't know yet what happened because the autopsy report hasn't come back yet."

I was stunned. I told Noah how sorry I was to hear about his brother and we talked a bit more about how his mother was devastated but trying to think positively. He told me she was grateful for the 15 years she had with him, that he was such a positive, happy person and really impacted many people that he met. I listened to him but all the while comparing the loss I'd been coping with to the loss his mother was coping with. It put things in a new perspective for me.

Noah spent that day skiing with us; he and Chase hit it off as beautifully as I knew they would. He also connected with us again the following morning. At the lift, I met his mother who was clearly distraught but told me she felt like she couldn't let Noah down by canceling the trip that was supposed to have included his brother. She was grateful that Noah had met us and had someone his age to spend the days with. Again, I was struck by the extremely sad situation this mother and child were in and when I compared our situations, I knew that I was the luckier of the two.

Make no mistake--I loved my Sheltie and am distraught to have lost her. But meeting Noah and seeing the strength he exhibited and hearing his mother's outlook helped me tremendously. His mother was glad Noah had met us but she'll never know how much it helped me to have met him.


Chase & Noah riding up a lift with us (Chase in green; me and John visible in Noah's lens)


Chase & Noah in our condo, which was right up the street from where Noah and his mother were staying