I'm not sure how my life became such a sports metaphor. When I was a child my family was outdoorsy in a seasonal, recreational way. Like the Kennedys' on a teacher's salary, but not as good looking. Water sports in summer and ice skating in winter. We couldn't afford family skiing, but my brother was on ski team at school. I don't think camping qualifies as a sport, but we got very good at it. I never went to any sort of summer camp and most certainly did not attend sports camp. Being part of a big family provided all the built- in competition we could handle and that was just at the dinner table.
There was a tennis phase, more like a craze, that my father and step-mother went through. We were dragged along to the public courts very early on summer mornings, before it got too hot. I can't recall perfectly, but there may have been a small bit of attitude on my part. One hot summer evening, when we were playing family tennis, I got hit hard in the face with a tennis ball. Then I really started to hate it. I was not going to be the next Chris Evert, although I did buy myself an adorable tennis dress that I wore with white knee socks. That was it for me and tennis until I was forty-three.
For a while I was a professional figure skater - at least in my own mind. I loved to hurry home from school in winter and skate on the lake for a while before dark. It was the most peaceful activity I have ever known. Many times I was the only person on the ice, the only soul around. The community was mostly summer homes - very few year-rounders. It was probably a bit dangerous to be out there by myself, but I loved it so. One time I literally did skate on thin ice -and broke through. Fortunately, it was near the shore and even more fortunately, my grandfather was with me and pulled me out. That was one cold trek home.
Despite a serious aversion to running, I tried out for the track team in seventh grade. In order to make the team we had to run three miles. I could run a mile, maybe two, but three miles? Half way through I was gasping for air. I slowed down to a fast walk. A guy friend grabbed my hand and pulled me the rest of the way. Woo hoo. I made the team. Apparently James A. Farley Middle School didn't need me in any of the running sports. They assigned me to pole vaulting. In seventh grade I was the same height as I am now, otherwise known as short. As one might imagine, I wasn't a very good pole vaulter. A couple times I came in third when there were only three competing. In those days parents didn't fuss over kids the way they do now. I don't think I was damaged by the fact nobody in my family ever saw me pole vault.
Eighth grade was soccer team which is just running in disguise. Running in the fall in New York, when the air is cold, can really hurt the lungs. It was social and we got to leave school early for the away games. In ninth grade I joined swim team. My accomplishments were less than stellar. We were in a new school with a brand new, indoor pool. My most vivid memory of swim team was when one of the divers hit his head on the board and blood filled the pool. That and having my hair freeze while I waited in the cold for my mother, late again, to pick me up.
From tenth grade on I was more interested in music and avant-garde art than playing for teams. When I moved to LA we played a little racquetball at Hollywood High and I took beginning ballet classes in San Francisco. When the children came along I didn't have a sport. Being Mommy was my job and I was lucky to squeeze in a trip to the gym or a walk with the dog. I loved to see their tumbling and ballet classes. Watching my kids take swim lessons made me incredibly happy. They dabbled in soccer but didn't really care about it. If there was a game, I was there. Wild horses couldn't drag me away.
Sports seemed to stay in proper perspective until Lucy joined swim team. When Lana was old enough, she also enlisted. Allie had no choice. It was compulsory. We were always at the pool and she learned to swim when she was four. For years our Saturdays, our dinner hour and our summer vacations were all obliterated by meets or practices. Swim team took so much from the family, but it gave at least as much, or so it seemed. I loved that it was an individual sport and each child could improve their own time, but still be part of a team. It's the only sport where five year olds are on the same level as eighteen year olds and boys and girls participate equally.
The three girls each had a different practice time, so I drove back and forth to the pool on at least a hundred thousand separate occasions. We had hooks in our downstairs bathroom with dozens of swim suits hanging up to dry. The chlorine would eat through the fabric so the girls would just keep layering the practice suits. Guests would use the bathroom and come out shaking their heads. How could one family have so many bathing suits? It was a small fortune to keep them in goggles and caps, not to mention parkas. The cars reeked of chlorine, but those were wonderful times when the windows were steamed up and they were on a high from practice. Kids who are swimmers and water polo players are not just athletes, they're part of a cult. They're water people.
As they say, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Soon I accepted that swim Mom was my fate and I stopped resisting. It was futile, anyway. I liked the idea of family dinners, but it became virtually impossible because of evening practices. Eventually, I caved completely, became president of the team and the Strawberry Seals swallowed up what was left of my life. In the process I learned something about myself. I was much more competitive than my children.
One exception was the year Lana was trying to qualify for All-Stars and was intensely motivated. She was invited to a friend's Bat Mitzvah, but couldn't miss the swim meet. We went early and she competed in backstroke with a qualifying time. We quickly changed, drove to the synagogue and attended the services. When they were finished we rushed back to the pool where Lana swam in her butterfly and individual medley, getting best times and qualifying in each event. Getting her out of the sun, the heat and the chaos of the meet really seemed to help, but maybe it was the prayers.
Eventually my daughters flat out told me that I cared more about them winning than they did. It was time for me to find my own sport. Ouch. I can take a hint. By this time I'd started to learn tennis and had an outlet for my own competitiveness. Now it's just what I do. It's what our friends do. They play sports, sometimes multiple sports in one day. Three sports in one day is called a "Tam Man." It might be a mountain bike ride, then tennis and a swim in the pool. It could be any combination - golf, hiking, even yoga.
Recently we had a rare appearance of snow on Mount Tamalpais. Six inches of February snow. At an elevation of 2,200 feet there can be a dusting on the peaks every couple years, but nothing that accumulates. Not this time. About eight a.m I happened to look up at the mountain and see the snow. Within thirty minutes we were in the car, Eric with skis, boots and poles, me with the camera. Skiing on Mt. Tam has been one of his dreams for thirty-five years. The item on the bucket list. In another thirty minutes we were walking up the fire road. We finally reached Rock Springs and he climbed to the top of a hill and skied down. Six inches of fresh on a layer of grass. It was slow going, but it was real. When he got back to the parking lot there were two mountain bikers and a woman walking her dog. Hiking, cycling, skiing in one day. Now that's a Tam Man.
No comments:
Post a Comment