What Champions Are Made Of
Two weeks ago, during football practice, Taylor hurts his back. He does all he can to make it feel better, stretches, massage, Advil, but it hurts and he wonders if he will be able to play in the semi-final game that is coming up on Sunday.
Sunday arrives, he asks me to massage his back again, before he leaves for the pre-game practice. I rub, and massage. He whimpers, it hurts but not so bad that he cannot play. His team must win, he must be a part of it. He hobbles off to the vehicle that will take him to the game. An intense look is on his face. He’s fine he reassures me, would I please quit being such a worry wart. He’s a man now, he says, he’ll be just fine.
I go to the game, of course. I want to watch him play. As the team is warming up I see him off to the side, stretching, rubbing his back. He can barely touch his toes. But he will play, doggone it, if it’s the last thing he does. And it just so happens that it is. One series into the game, he makes a tackle, a good one too. I see him try to lift his body off the ground, he is wincing, holding his back, barely walking. He spends the rest of the game in utter agony, neither sitting nor standing help. At one point I get his attention by shouting, flapping my arms like a giant bird ready to take off. Should I come rub his back? I yell. It is very loud with all the cheering and crazy fans. Thank goodness he can read lips. No, he mouths back. Thanks goodness the message was short, he did not inherit the lip reading thing from me.
So I watch. Every agonizing minute of the game my eyes are on the bench instead of on the field. Why is no one helping him? Can they not see that he is in pain? I need to be there. I think to myself no one can take care of your kid as well as you can.
Finally the game is over. The longest 4 quarters of my life. We win but Taylor cannot even celebrate. His face is racked with pain. He tries to pick up his bag but he cannot bend to grab the handles, and the weight of it is too much for him at this point. Slowly we get him to the vehicle and begin the great task of loading a 6’2” inch man-cub with little mobility into the back seat. He tries to lie down, than sits up, than shuffles to the other hip. It all hurts. Home, he says, I just want to go home.
I spend the entire week and my inheritance at Terry’s house of horrors and miracle shop (a.k.a. chiropractor)trying to get this kid of mine ready for the biggest game of his life this far; Football Provincials. No Raiders team has ever made it this far. They are the first, they are the few, they are the finest. Taylor has worked hard to get his team here all season. It seems unjust for him not to play. He deserves this. Besides that, he is a great player and I love to watch him play (that’s called mama-pride!) I will do whatever needs to be done to see him play in one week’s time. I drive him daily to see the one man who I believe holds the future in his hands; the chiropractor. As Taylor is twisted into pretzel like shapes, jumped on, electrocuted, and burned(heat packs) all in the name of a football championship I wonder to myself how disappointed he will be if he cannot play on Saturday.
It ends up that Taylor does play that following Saturday and the chiropractor is a miracle worker. Pure adrenaline rips through his body, and for three series I watch my kid light up the defence. He makes some amazing tackles, no one, not a single soul gets past him. And then the other team changes their play, they pass the ball and Taylor takes off after the guy, (it was more like a hobble limp but still faster than I thought he could run). He throws himself at the ball-carrier, misses the tackle as I see his back do this backward snappy sort of thing. He hits the ground and lays there for just a second longer than I think is appropriate. It takes great effort for him to lift himself off the ground and he stumbles to the sidelines. For the rest of the game he watches from the sidelines. He watches the tackles, the misses, the touchdowns, the interception; he watches it all with a grin on his face. No feeling sorry for himself, no anger, or sadness, encouraging guys as they come off the field.
In the end they win. There is so much cheering and celebrating, jumping and hollering. And I watch my kid with the biggest smile ever slap his teammates on the back, hug others, shake hands. They did it. They are all champions.
