A Return To…………

The High School my son attended just two short years ago decided to initiate a new tradition – the annual alumni soccer game. My son, being somewhat famous in his estimation and more than a bit infamous in the estimations of others, was a willing participant. He called me last week to see if I wanted to come watch. Of course I did!

Saturday noon I set out for middle Tennessee and dreams of soccer glory. I set out about 30 minutes later than I had planned. But it didn’t matter – I felt no pressure or rush. The further I got from Atlanta, the calmer I felt.

When I finally pulled off the interstate, I was back in familiar turf where I had lived for 9 years. I had wanted out very badly. It just didn’t fit my picture of who I was and what I wanted to do. I took the long route so I could see what had changed. The changes were small….a new restaurant, a couple of businesses relocated, a new tattoo parlor, a new gas station. The town grows, but slowly. The countryside was beautiful and relaxing. I found myself wrapped in nostalgia and thinking that perhaps I had been mistaken. Maybe I really am a country girl.

My son has rented an old farmhouse which I had not visited before. I found myself envying him the old building with it’s uneven floors, choppy construction from multiple additions, and ancient gold shag carpet surrounded by acres of farmland complete with ponds and a river running through it. I was not so lost in my reverie that I didn’t notice the grass needs cutting though!

Soon enough we set out for the game. I got many surprised hellos and hugs. I saw the regard that this young man of mine is held in by his peers and adults both. I watched the game in freezing cold windy weather – just like the many years I had spent as a soccer mom, surrounded by familiar faces and yelling familiar taunts at the ref. There was a slight difference, the taunts this time were good natured and playful. The ref, my son’s high school coach, acknowledged them by impishly awarding me a yellow card. And I caught up on boys from many years of teams.

There was the deaf boy who played soccer as if it were football. His fourth baby had been born just a week ago. And the hard core country boy who used to come to practice in his cowboy boots was there with his wife. The intelligent but troubled young man that recorded a song with a popular rap group and then returned home in fear of his life. The quiet fellow that had always wanted to drive a big truck who now has his dream job. The eternally spoiled brothers who will never leave home for no woman will ever cater to them as completely as their mother. The college boys, some of them already preparing for grad school. Another set of brothers that were stuck in their glory days as high school jocks. The young man who had first taken my son under his wing when we moved there. The boy who was the worst player on the team yet played a better game than many on the field that day. In all, there were 22 lives to catch up with and remember.

After the game we adjourned to the coach’s house for barbecue and – what else – more soccer on tv. I heard a tape of the first televised broadcasts of the high school team with the commentator being none other than my son. The coach pulled me aside to tell me that my son was family to him. He really wanted me to know that. I smiled and thanked him and looked around at his new house, which my son had been part of the construction crew for. I guess it’s a good thing when “family” builds your house.

I watched my son carefully that day. He is living a life far from what I thought he would lead, but he seems genuinely content with it and himself. He is working manual labor, his girlfriend is 8 or 9 years older than he is. He lives simply and donates all his spare time to what he loves most – soccer. He coaches, plays, referees and broadcasts. He is at home.

I left knowing that my son is fine, that small town life will never change, and that I must go on and put my life in order. It was a wonderful half day.

Sunday my daughter returned from a weekend off with friends She had bought me a gift. It is a credit card sized piece of plastic with the following poem on it:

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will

When the road you’re trudging seems all up hill,

When the funds are low, and the debts are high,

And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,

When care is pressing you down a bit,

Rest if you must, but don’t quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns,

As everyone of us sometimes learns,

And many a failure turns about,

When he might have won had he stuck it out;

Don’t give up though the pace seems slow,

You may succeed with another blow.

Success is failure turned inside out,

The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,

And you never can tell how close you are,

It may be near when it seems so far;

So stick to the fight when you’re hardes hit,

It’s when things seem worse,

That you must not quit.

I am sleeping with that thought under my pillow tonight. It was a good weekend, and I am truly blessed.