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Up with the roosters for my son’s soccer game.
Playing at the field where he and I have spent so many hours over the years.
Just the two of us.
Baking in midsummer. Sweating buckets. Going out for Slurpies after.
Now, my little man is playing with the big boys. It goes fast.
Playing at the field where he and I have spent so many hours over the years.
Just the two of us.
Baking in midsummer. Sweating buckets. Going out for Slurpies after.
Now, my little man is playing with the big boys. It goes fast.
We’d play, just the two of us and a soccer ball.
I’d jokingly push him off the ball and call it “playing European-style.”
Now he’s 11-yrs old, 80 pounds and mixing it up with kids a foot taller.
He has always been a kid you couldn’t intimidate. He takes no sh**. Fears nothing.
I’d jokingly push him off the ball and call it “playing European-style.”
Now he’s 11-yrs old, 80 pounds and mixing it up with kids a foot taller.
He has always been a kid you couldn’t intimidate. He takes no sh**. Fears nothing.
The single greatest thing about parenting a son at this age is watching the last clear fingerprints of your own influence fade away into who they are all by themselves.
Now, I just watch from the stands and smile.
A few times a game, he looks up at me and gives me a nod.
Now, I just watch from the stands and smile.
A few times a game, he looks up at me and gives me a nod.
Anyway, I’ve got a game to get to.
My son is playing on the field where I see ghosts of the old us. Him at six and seven and eight years old.
Loved it then. Love it now. Never loved anything more.
My son is playing on the field where I see ghosts of the old us. Him at six and seven and eight years old.
Loved it then. Love it now. Never loved anything more.
