When I was young, I never pictured myself as a mom who would spend the bulk of her years attending sporting events.
Strange as it may seem, I imagined my child-rearing agendas to consist of matching outfits, frilly dresses and Winnie-the- Pooh tea parties.
Then the good Lord, for reasons known only to him, decided to bless me with sportloving kids and with that an abundance of basketballs, cleats and protective undergarments best left unmentioned.
So much for frilly dresses.
I never thought I would spend the majority of my waking hours watching young men toss one thing or another around fields, courts and baseball diamonds, and I truly never appreciated what the spectators endured.
There are fine folks out there who will firmly challenge that the players have it worse. The cold wind blowing in their faces as they stare down a competitor, the burning hot ride of sliding into home plate on a sizzling afternoon, and let’s not forget the chilling thrill of going for first down across ice-laden grass.
Sure, the competitors have it rough. Yet I’m here to contend that the bulk of these athletes have never had to wash the aforementioned unmentionables.
Just sayin’.
Still, I’ve come to terms with whiling away the hours as a spectator. I’ve accepted the fact that if the good Lord wanted me to have cute hair, he would have given me chess players, Parcheesi contenders and perhaps at least one frill-loving girl.
Although I’m not one to toot my own horn, I’ve always taken pride in being tough enough to sit in the stands regardless of the temperature or precipitation as I observed football-loving boys, basketball-passing males and discus-throwing contenders.
As much as I hate the arctic cold, the freezing rain and the wind-driven snow, I’ve never been one to sit in the car and honk.
That’s just how tough I am.
Football weather starts out nice enough. But before long, I’m dressing in layers and toting around enough blankets, if placed end to end, to cover most of Nebraska and a corner of Colorado. The high school basketball season is pleasant but ends all too soon, and before I know it, I’m being pulled from a climatecontrolled event and landing right in the middle of the track season along with a hostile weather pattern.
In my favor, the Clinch boys have previously been throwers. They like to heave a shot put over a sand pit and then hurl an overweight Frisbee across the field.
That’s not so bad. My children give me an approximate time; I show up to watch the event, do a golf clap, climb back into the car and go about my business.
It worked out quite nicely until Little Charlie, son number four, came along and decided to be a runner.
“Honey, the
Clinches are throwers,” I explained to him as I handed him two sweatshirts and a coat for last week’s brisk day of events.
“But I qualified for the 400.”
“Does that mean you won’t throw?” I asked with great hopes of perhaps staying just long enough to see him run through the winning string before departing for the day.
“No, I qualified for the discus too.”
Ah man! “How far apart are these events?” I asked, doing my best to mask my internal tantrum.
“Maybe just like two or three hours.”
I felt the blood draining from my face at the thought of it.
If you’ve never been privy to attending a track meet, I’m here to testify that the warm promise of a sunny day tends to dissipate once one gets out of the car. It would seem that the powers that be take a look at the calendar, see an “invite” in a rural town and then move the jet stream south so that arctic air can be pulled in straight from Canada.
And last week’s track meet was certainly no exception.
“Where are you?” I texted my friend Toni in hopes that she had an extra blanket that I could add to the pile I had amassed around me.
“I’m watching the meet from the comfort of my car.”
You know, being tough is over-rated. And I must admit — I kind of like to honk the horn.