 photograph by Jason Stout |
have believed since earliest childhood that people who play team sports are from a different branch
of the human species than I, one I regarded with a combination of jealousy and
incomprehension that hardened later in life to disdain. And yet I, a prime
specimen of Homo Spaziens, a geek, a freak, the kind of kid who would have
gnawed off her own arm to get out of gym class, have given birth to a young
athlete. Yes, from these non-varsity loins has sprung a blond-haired,
loose-limbed, easygoing eight-year-old master of the universe, and he has led
me to greener fields than I’ve ever known. So many years wasted on sex and
drugs and rock & roll, when transcendence was waiting for me all along, in
middle age, on the sidelines of a soccer field.
Perhaps you’ve already heard the recent news: at 7:40 Central Time one night,
the Black Knights trounced the Green Hornets to win the Under-10 Division
championship of the West Austin Youth Association Soccer League. The final goal
of the game — of the season, in fact — was made by my own number 10, who
trapped a punt kicked upfield by a defensive back, dribbled it past several
Hornet challengers, then bombed it over the goalie’s outstretched fingers into
the net. This was Number 10’s first and only score of the season, and the sheer
miracle of its having been made in the final minutes of the final hour amazed
everyone, including the team’s top scorer, tiny but deadly #7, who leaped into
his teammate’s arms with glee. Several minutes later, the game ended, with the
Black Knights victorious and turning cartwheels on the field, champagne corks
popping and the notoriously loud Black Knight parents more obnoxious than ever,
beside themselves with joy.
At a post-game event held at a local pizza joint, gangly NPR reporter John
Burnett, father of number 3, the fearsome defensive sweeper, was heard to
mutter hoarsely, “I was never on a winning sports team in my whole life. This
is one of the great moments. They’ll tell this story for the rest of their
lives.” Other parents compared the Knights’ win to the Yanks World Series
triumph or the Cowboys first Super Bowl. Kudos were heaped upon the Knight’s
devoted coach, former city councilmember George Humphrey, while the mother of
number 10 sat in a euphoric daze, appreciating the appeal of sports for the
first time in her uncoordinated life. A black and white ball rotating through
the spotlit air, sailing not too high, not too wide, not too late, but just
right, as if the physical laws of nature had opened a loophole for her son, or
perhaps as if there really were such a thing as magic.
I have to wonder: Are the members of my high school’s cheerleading squad now
home with overweight, nearsighted children who prefer Jane Eyre to fresh
air and almost anything to exercise? It would only be fair, don’t you think? n
Longtime Chronicle contributor, National Public Radio commentator,
acclaimed author, woman-about-town, and proud mother, Marion Winik will be
reading at Mojo’s, 9pm Saturday night, as part of South by Southwest’s spoken
word showcase.
This article appears in March 14 • 1997 and March 14 • 1997 (Cover).