Soccer, goals, life...

A. spent the past two weeks competing for a spot on one of the high-school soccer teams. He’s a freshman this year, still awaiting his puberty growth spurt—sometimes that hinders his confidence. More often than not, it means he’s overlooked and outrun by taller players with secondary hormonal musculature.

I’m 5’4” on a good day, my husband is 5’8” on a great day—we’re not height-blessed genetically . It’s never mattered to me—girls aren’t judged via height the same way boys are. I know how talented A. is—he’s a natural-born athlete. Nothing physically daunted him until sixth grade, when other boys began the gradual ascent to puberty.

By seventh grade, A. was second-guessing himself on the soccer field, backing down to bigger players, afraid to make mistakes. An aggressive, competitive coach increased his angst.

During eighth grade, we saw an endocrinologist, because A. dropped off his own growth chart. Puberty takes its sweet time in my family—I wasn’t too worried—but A. needed professional reassurance. Growth is definitely in his future—knowing that boosted his confidence on its own upward journey.

Still, this week has been hard—fear of not making the Junior Varsity I team made my son testy… I don’t care which team he’s on, although I know his abilities dictate the I team. I just want him to play a sport he loves and believe in himself.

Yesterday was especially difficult—A. fought mercilessly with his siblings—I should have known something was up. He was tense during the ride to soccer this a.m. and told me practice ended early. What he didn’t say spoke volumes…I failed to decipher the words…

During the morning, another soccer mom called, wondering when I was heading to the high school. She wanted to be there when her son found out which team he was on—the coach planned to tell each player individually. I was stunned—A. hadn’t said anything…no that’s not true…I just hadn’t read the signals correctly.

Nervously, I drove to the high school, scared for A., worried because he’d been too nervous to share details. Sitting in the parking lot, listening to M.’s happy chatter, I searched anxiously for my son. Other players stood in groups, laughing, pounding each other with soccer balls, sweating excess testosterone. Minutes ticked by, I wondered if A. was sitting alone, upset, discouraged…

M. hopped out of the car, happily climbing on a bike rack, inadvertently making me smile. Suddenly, she raced toward the soccer players, and I saw A. standing in their midst. Dodging taller boys, she launched herself at A. and he greeted her with a smile—the death grip on my heart relaxed slightly. When A. looked up, searching for me, our eyes locked, his smile broadened…I knew he’d made the right team.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, blinking back tears, I applauded my son’s growing independence, the desire to handle a tough situation on his own. Watching him walk toward me, towering over his sister, I was also stunned by the realization that he’d grown up in more ways than one this summer…