For every season

Basketball season is upon us. 

I was positively giddy as I stood on the sideline as sixty two kids (some of whom were wearing orange pinneys that were almost indistinguishable from the red pinneys, while others were decked out in a purple that blended right in with the blue) vied for one of sixty-two-thousand basketballs drumming against the floors. 

In this case, I could see why green is the color of envy. The parents of the green-color-pinney players could easily find their kids in this crowd. 

But just as I had celebrated the advent of this thrice-weekly recreational activity, which is sure to chip away at my son's daily recreational inactivity, reality reared its sobering head.

Literally. Since most kids his age are a full head and shoulders taller. 

There is that sick feeling again, the one in the pit of my stomach: caused in part by the angst of being the parent of a kid who isn't the best at sports, who won't likely see much game time, and who is nearly certain to hear his name yelled in anger as he misses a pass or turns over the ball. 

And we’re just going through evaluations. We have an entire season to deep-breath our way through. 

It was all coming back to me.

I mean, we hadn't been there more than five minutes when a coach ambled over to ask why my kid was crying.

I didn't know. But I could guess. 

He's always been emotional and easily overwhelmed, especially in crowded, raucous rooms. He might have taken someone's comments more sharply than they were meant. Maybe he was jabbed intentionally. It could have been anything, really: a perceived fault. A missed basket. A dribble that was more of a drool. So many possibilities when you're beating yourself up in your mind. 

From my distance, I couldn't see the tears, but I could tell from the angle of his head and set of his jaw that they were there.

There was nothing I could do in the moment but wait. Eventually he will recover.

This isn't easy. 

Even though popular science and conventional wisdom would tells us boys should be allowed to have and show vulnerability, the reality of tears is more complicated. And I think if we're being honest with ourselves, girls don't get off the hook for wearing their emotions in public either. 

I think it's simply that few people are comfortable with someone else’s misery. It's hard to watch any kid struggle, especially our own.

And as I hold myself back from intervening, all kinds of worries ricochet around in my head, not the least of which is wondering who will judge and find this boy wanting? Who will decide upon witnessing that particular moment that he’s not worth their trouble? 

None of which is within my control.

The thing is, crying is not really the problem. The problem is coping. 

And I’m not talking about him. He’s already wiped his face and rejoined the fracas.

I’m talking about me.

I can’t stop the tears or the anger the moment they happen and neither can he. Neither of us can stop feelings from overwhelming us. We can only find better ways to wait them out and get back in the game.