Kick start

 

 
When his winter sport ended a month ago, my son retreated to the warmth of his overheated room and the comfort of his favorite video games. It is the equivalent of adolescent hibernation. 

And for the past four weeks, we've barely seen him.
Oh, we noticed evidence. 

Damp towels slumped on the bathroom floor like a dozing dog. In the morning, nowhere near the kitchen sink, I might find bowls encrusted with a thin layer of late-night ice cream. 

A trail of empty wrappers leads to his always-closed bedroom door. 
A shoe, sole up, trips me up in the entryway. A few hours later, I will notice its mate kicked under the dining room table, and I will try to make the mental note of it stick. 

Tomorrow morning he'll be limping around looking for his lost kick. I'll try and pull the sticky note out of my brain, but it will come out with a lot of words that ask only one question: "why can't you keep track of your things?"

Spring is here, boyo. It's time to turn over a new leaf.

However inartfully said, the message was clear. The boy could get a hobby ... or a job ... or he could putter around a house with no internet and only healthy snacks. His choice.

Truth be told, I thought it was a long-shot bet the man placed. After all, the likelihood we'd ever cut the wireless cord in earnest was next to nil. But thanks to some hidden odds, the wager paid off.

"Sam asked me to join the track team so I'm going to stay after school today. Hey, have you seen my sneaker?"

I couldn't believe my ears.

Wasn't he the little boy who demanded to join me on race day, but who ran out of steam by the first mailbox? After which, wasn't he the boy who gave me the hairy eyeball when I asked him if he'd like to go for a run?

Who was this boy?

"What? Wait, you joined track? Like ... you are going to run?"
I thought I might hyperventilate. 

A child ... of mine ... was going to live a dream I never even knew I had until I turned 40 and learned recreational "jogging" was the only sport I could do.

Finally! I was going to live vicariously through him. He might even ask me for what little advice I could provide. 

II was already picturing myself at the sidelines, cheering him on. I don't even know the events: shot put? long-jump? Javelin? There's no way he's running long-distance ... not with his father's big bones and my flat feet. ...

"Mom ... I'm better at discus, and New York state doesn't allow javelin throwing." He almost had it all figured out: "I'm not sure I'll ever figure out hurdles. Distance sends knives into my Achilles and makes my left lung hurt. Honestly, I'm thinking about joining the sprint team. ...

"Hey ... do you know why my shoulders hurt?"

And before I could answer, I made myself breathe into a paper bag. 
I couldn't believe I'm going to be one of THOSE parents ... the ones who know a little bit about a sport and will get to armchair coach like they are s certified pro. 

"You're probably tensing up. Just try to be mindful of it and relax."