Sports Mom, the Second Half

I have an artist friend who paints beautiful background murals for museum exhibits. He says modestly that often people don’t much notice them, even though of course they took him hours of careful work, because real creatures—a moose, an elk, a family of wolves perhaps– are front and center. Such it is, I think, only kind of in reverse, with the dramas going on in our lives versus what’s happening in the larger arena outside and all around us. Sometimes, we may have no business feeling like the main animal in the center of a vast landscape, but there we are, doing our thing for survival.

Thus am I, this winter, trying to re-invent myself as “Sports Mom, Whatdyagot?” Or something like that.

As we approach Super Bowl Sunday, it seems like sports is dominating the news once again—blanketing the region almost like the snowflakes that were swirling around outside in the blizzard. No matter, of course, that 2014 gave irrefutable evidence of global warming, innocent people are being attacked by terrorist groups, and regimes are toppling in different corners of the globe. Here in New England, we have Deflategate sputtering on; then there is of course the actual game to get ready for; talk of Boston possibly getting the nod from the Olympic Committee has people all excited; and how about that NHL All-Star game last week?

This is all compelling stuff, no doubt. I might even be able to pay more attention to it if I weren’t so preoccupied with my own attempts to bolster my athletic life. This winter, I’m trying to give it the ol’ college try…except I’m not in college anymore, and I definitely won’t be winning any medals of any kind. In fact, I’m hoping mostly that I just won’t get hurt. In addition to my regular routine of running solo with the dog, I’ve added ice hockey as a second (and, I feel, complementary) team sport to tennis, and I’m also hoping to do a good bit of skiing with a couple of tennis friends.

What’s up with this? Well, illusions of grandeur aside, President Obama’s new “Go get ‘em” attitude has definitely inspired me. The day after his forceful State of the Union speech, a front page article in The New York Times took us back a few months:

The morning after major Democratic losses in last year’s midterm elections, President Obama walked into the Roosevelt Room with a message for his despondent staff: I’m not done yet.

Well, when it comes to sports, neither am I.  And I daresay I have lots of company in this department, from other women of a certain age, still with a degree of fight. Many of us are moving on from countless hours driving to and spectating at our kids’ events to discovering whether we, in fact, might have some of our own “game” left. Supporting and cheering on our striving offspring was all fine, and we might even be missing those days, what with all the benefits of sharing a mutual purpose and socializing with other parents constantly over the ups and downs of the teams. Drifting back further in our own memories, we can recall when we were the participants–running down lush fields, dribbling down courts, doing wind sprints on the ice, you name it–almost always without our parents watching. And some women my age are just coming as first-timers to the team sports party, having had other interests during school days and perhaps no children to bring them into it later. Now, though, for a number of reasons, it’s time.

This past summer, when I played a lot of tennis with a group of new friends on late afternoons, with the amber sunshine and light breezes just perfect, and a coach barking instructions, there was an unmistakable feeling of actually getting better. Past our prime? Maybe, but we can still improve our volleys, try to get those backhands deep, and stir up some competitive juices– all while taking our minds off, for a couple of hours, whatever else might be ailing us. After all, as Michael Mandelbaum states in the opening chapter of his book, The Meaning of Sports (NY: PublicAffairs, 2004), sports are similar to organized religion in that they supply “a welcome diversion from the routines of daily life..” OK, I’m pretty sure my husband would say that religion does a whole lot more than that, and I would heartily agree, but it’s something, anyway.

For us, switching games for a minute, it’s kind of like the second half. Perhaps that’s being a bit too generous—it’s more like the third period, or the seventh inning stretch. (Oh and by the way, stretching is definitely a good idea.) However you figure it, the most important thing is: there’s still some time left to win some sets, score some goals, earn some kind of modest triumph. Or maybe just to re-claim some hustle out there.

When I told one of my older brothers, a lifelong hockey enthusiast, that I was venturing back onto the ice after close to 20 years mostly off it, I admitted to him my feeling of trepidation. “But what if I really stink?” Without hesitation, he looked right at me with a smile and said, “But Pol, it doesn’t matter!” He really meant it, too. And then, the more I thought about it, the more I realized he was right. What mattered in this case, as part of my ongoing effort to feel settled in a new town after a family move, was taking the initiative to go challenge myself athletically again while also meeting some women who were likely to be cooler-than-average. In my opinion, anyway.

On my first time out, sure enough, I did indeed stink: the skating was OK but the stickhandling was pretty pathetic. By the third time, though, at least I was making some passes. Silly me, even with just a little bit of progress, I felt elated. And tired. When I mentioned the fatigue factor to another woman on the bench—about my age— she looked through the grill on her helmet and said simply, “Short shifts.”

A couple of days ago, on a beautiful cold and sunny morning, I joined my tennis friends (both significantly younger, but no matter) out on the ski slopes. They had originally come together because of having kids the same age; I entered the scene only because of our mutual sport, which then led to another mutual sport. They had a whole routine on the mountain already established–a certain number of runs in a specific order, ending with soup. Just joining them was wonderful, and the only kids around were other people’s kids. I took in the expanse of well-groomed trails, concentrated on making my turns, and felt both diverted and right where I was supposed to be, at the same time. Next time, I think I’ll  go a little faster.