It has been said that parents often relive their past through their children. Their hopes, their dreams, their lost opportunities, directed upon the child brought into this world to help correct mistakes made. Like the mother who encourages her daughter to enter beauty pageants. At first she thinks her daughter is the cutest contestant on stage and praises her daughter for every little accomplishment she makes. Eventually, the mother’s failures of childhood begin surfacing and the once fun and bonding experience becomes a battle between the past and the present.
Or there’s the story of Richard Sandrak, better known as “Little Hercules,” who was born in a small village in the Ukraine, moved to Pennsylvania with his parents when he was two, and whose father began training him in martial arts and bodybuilding when Richard turned three. As Richard began making progress, his father saw an opportunity. He moved the family to California with hopes that the remarkable gains Richard made and his freakishly mature physique would provide them with a more rewarding lifestyle. It should be noted that Richard’s father began martial arts and bodybuilding at the same time as his three year old son without similar results.
I never played organized sports as a child. I grew up in a community that had a very organized sports program. Baseball, football, hockey, soccer, basketball, all of the major sports were well represented. Without me. It’s not that I didn’t understand the benefits of being on a team. In grammar school, I received high marks from my teachers when they assigned group projects. Or it wasn’t that I didn’t like sports. I followed the progress of the Cubs, my favorite team with my favorite players, Rick Reuschel, Bill Buckner, Ivan DeJesus.
I wasn’t very athletically inclined, however. Most times, during the picking of teams during impromptu games of whatever seasonal sport was popular, I was almost always the last player picked. Everyone knew I wasn’t very coordinated. There was the occasional kick-ball game during recess in the sixth grade. Mr. Kropp divided teams so there were equal parts boys and girls. I was a master of the kick-ball home run. Almost every time it was my turn to kick, I’d smash the big red ball, sending several outfielders chasing after it, as I rounded each base to home. It was the few times when classmates actually wanted me to be on their team.
My lack of team sports involvement can be directly attributed to my father. He wasn’t a big fan of the parental duties that came with the experience: registration, uniform pick-up, selling candy bars or tins of popcorn, sitting with the other parents and chatting away while the kids learned the mechanics of each sport or activity. That wasn’t his thing.
When I was 10 years old, I wanted to be an Indian Guide (known now by its more politically correct term, Adventure Guides).
“Absolutely not,” my father insisted. “I’m not going around wearing a head-dress and carrying a tomahawk. Sorry, no thanks.”
When I was in high school, and I became a competitive bodybuilder, my father was supportive—from a distance. His support came in the form of picking me up from school every day, shuttling me to the gym, and then picking me up to take me home after. It was convenient, but it did not require him to do much except chauffeur.
I did have my opportunity once, when I was in sixth grade. The district offered the chance to play flag football after school for several weeks as a way to help working parents offer alternatives to their children rather than afternoon cartoons. I wasn’t very good at performing tasks that required good hand-eye coordination. But running after an opponent to capture his flag was appealing.
I remember apprehensively asking my father if I could sign-up for the program. I knew he would not be a fan of anything extracurricular. My brothers and I were not technically considered latch-key kids because, while our mother didn’t get home from her job at the currency exchange until six o’clock, our father arrived—without fail—at 3pm. He worked as a baggage handler for American Airlines at O’Hare Airport , his shift beginning at 5:30am.
We only lived a few blocks away from the school, but across a busy street. Being part of the after school flag football program would mean I would miss the bus home which required a parental pick-up. My dad apprehensively agreed because the program was only in a testing phase; it didn’t require the commitment that the house league did.
Running after “Andy”—his name as recognizable to me as what I had for breakfast that morning—was one minute of my allotted fifteen minutes of fame. Andy was faster than me. Much faster. Everybody knew that he was one of the fastest kids in the class, which was why all of the other boys gave up early, uninterested in attempting the unattainable. We were on the opposite side of his end zone. I didn’t want to give up. I wanted to see if I could catch him. A self-imposed lesson, proof to myself, my father, or anyone else who knew my sports limitations. I wanted that flag. I needed that flag. I wanted to will that flag into my hands, but had to earn the accolades the hard way.
Andy wasn’t too far ahead of me when I ran after him. Even though he was faster than me, I felt I had the dedication and drive to capture the flag. I refused to give up. I ran as fast as I could and as he ran closer to the end zone, my last resort was to make a dive for either side of him. I stretched out my arms, without much thought, and dropped my body in his direction. I felt my fingers touch the tip of the flag on his right, but I could not get a hold of it with any precision.
Andy made the touchdown and I was not the hero of the game. But I taught myself a lesson, even at a young age. I taught myself that I couldn't give up. Even if I failed, I had to keep running after the flags. That has stayed with me all these years.
I may be just as bad as the stage mom and Little Hercules’ dad. Both of my kids are involved in extracurricular activities. My daughter is a ballerina, and she participated in her first season of PeeWee baseball. It’s my son who makes me worry. I’ve encouraged him to sign-up for many different team sports. He’s tried basketball and soccer. He’s been in baseball for five years, just completing his first year of full player pitch. He did a great job the other day when he pitched his first inning in a game. I was more nervous than he was. I try to be encouraging and motivate him to do well. I have no idea if I am pushing him too hard to be involved in sports, or if his outward enthusiasm is genuine. I am sure he will have his own Andy to chase. But I hope his memory is peppered with fondness versus regret
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