The Reverse Draft

Baseball season is afoot, and with it comes the hat of coaching that David so willingly picks up for his boys.  This year, Collin's league involves an evaluation of around 100 boys who, in a day or two, will be drafted on to a team.

David is meticulous about stats and has ranked in an extensive spreadsheet his evaluation notes and a calibrated top 100 from the first draft pick down to the last, mostly according to observed technical skill or personal knowledge of the player.

Yep, the subject of drafting players hangs heavy in this house.

So tonight I was chatting with my girlie chatterbox because in middle school, many small details and incidents must be hashed and rehashed before the day might officially end. 

She told me, after months of waiting, she finally was tapped to be team captain in PE, which meant she got the power position of drafting her team for dodgeball.   

Well, I said, who did you pick?  The super sporty 8th grade boy?  The cool hip 7th grader who hardly gives you the time of day, but might start liking you if you picked her first?  The older, cute girl who you want to impress? Who then, pray tell?

Her reply: Mom, I decided to go in reverse for once.  You know, to pick the ones who always come last.

A reverse draft?

Apparently so. After ceding the first pick to the other captain, she called up as a coveted top pick the sweet girl adopted from a foreign orphanage who, because of a slight disability, could only move slowly from here to there.  Not exactly the most competitive selection for a winning lineup.

Oh boy Mom, she was so excited.

Then she called the girl with Asperger's, who shouts out in class, never quite brushes all of her hair, and acts- shall we say- different.

We all stand together and wait, crying inside to be chosen.

After that came a series of non-sporty, quiet girls with braces.  

Apparently God blessed this selection, because they fared pretty well against all the jocks and popular coolkats who ended up on the other squad.

So I'm ending this long day pondering how a child can be taught many subjects and facts, but is she also learning lessons of kindness and love?  Can a hyper-sensitive middle school mind see beyond the staged and sometimes-thorny outer shell of a fellow teen and right into the prism-like beauty of that person's heart? 

Such unexpected love for others must certainly originate with the One who first ran the reverse draft.  You know, the heavenly team captain who, century after century, picked the rejected (Jesus), the prostitute (Rahab), the elderly (Abraham and Sarah), the runt of the litter (King David) as the All-Stars for His team.

And although I am pleased with her numerous 7th grade accomplishments, I am convinced that her memorable draft will go down as one of the most meaningful successes of all.

Move Over, Spider-Man

We're taking out annual end-of-June break from reality up in Charlottesville, Virginia, home of UVa, intellectuals, foodies, and the undulating Blue Ridge Mountains. Ahhhhh. A gal can breathe here (and gain a pound or two on locally sourced cuisine and craft beer.)

As it happens, we celebrate D's birthday each time we come, and this year he decided the festivities would include introducing his children to (yet another) sport: rock climbing.

I wasn't sure how it would go over. Rock climbing involves incredible stamina, strategy, fearlessness, and the willingness to cling by one's fingertips at high altitudes while covered in rivulets of sweat.

Wouldn't you know--my little people took right to it.  Yet again, I wonder if they were switched at birth.

Hmmmm, maybe I've been living with Spider-man's undercover progeny and I never once knew it. 

Don't tell.

How do they not fall? Because mom and dad have assumed the ultimate power position: the belayer.

(Belayer: the person maneuvering a system of ropes and pullies attached to a climber's harness that keeps them from from plunging down to injury or death.)

Oh my.

I've been on autopilot-mom mode for so long that when the instructor whipped through her belay directions for the double figure-eight knot I needed to tie that would mean the difference between life and death for my kids, I plumb froze up and stared blankly at her fast-moving mouth.  Wait up now.  How was I in the plans for this climb? Me tying fancy knots? It's like having a lifeguard who can't swim. Baaaad idea. 

I heard a small inner voice say "Brain! Put down your thoughts of craft beer and learn this, pronto!" 

The adrenaline rush combined with the thought of CNN's headline "Mother's Error Kills Children on Family Rock Climb" helped me push through and figure out the rules of belay.  

Folks, this is a public service announcement. Bone up on your knot skills ASAP.  You never know when they'll be required. 

Whoopsie.

Two hours later, everyone not only survived, but left so smelly, sweaty, and happy that they asked to come back another day. 

Next time, I'm packing my Wonder Woman outfit for this super hero work. 

A Little Tip for Summer Sanity: Just Add Water

Every time we have a child finish kindergarten, we go out and celebrate by signing them up for their first summer swim team.  This trend was started with our eldest, who was indeed a tender six years old when she first hit the blocks for the Area Tallahassee Aquatic Club.

She cried and cried the first day of practice.  I can hardly blame her.  There are bunches of kids who do swim team here, and a big competitive crowd swimming lap after lap can come off as quite intimidating to a little kid.  And yes, for you moms who are wondering, it was pretty darn excruciating for me to see her tearing up on deck in her brand new pink Speedo.  I really wanted to put her right back in the car, treat her to a Chick Fil A milkshake, and call it a day.

Alas, we persevered with our plan even though the tears didn't stop that day.  They came again and again and again until one day, she walked right across the big pool deck and hopped right in.

Collin joined her a few years later, then Anne Mason, and this year, Reid is officially in the mix.  Every single one of them cried the first day week of swim team. We have come to expect it as a rite of passage to Growing Up Roberts.

But why?  It's somewhat expensive and is a huge commitment of time, requiring three to four days a week of workouts and meets.  The most simple reason is that we wanted an easy way for them to learn all four strokes.  Swim team accomplishes that in one season of swimming, and those stroke skills will be with them well into adulthood, allowing swimming as a great alternative down the road when their joints get as touchy as mine.

Secondly, swim team develops core strength, a strength that translates into any sport they want to pursue.  Madeleine swam many summers before she started softball, and boy can she wallop the ball.  It all goes back to those repetitions of laps she put in, logging about a mile per workout by the last season she participated.

Moreover, who doesn't want to compete and win stuff?  My kids all do.  The first meet is scary, but then it's a great challenge to them to clock their personal best in whatever the event might be.

Reidy sports Collin's old royal blue jammers as he tries to get into the zone.

Reid's first-ever meet happened to be this week, in the evening after the conclusion of eight (hot) hours of baseball camp where, of all things, they practiced sliding all day.

His legs were toast by the time the meet rolled around.  This kiddo still loves his nap, so he really had to put the exhaustion at bay, which wasn't too hard once the fear set in and replaced all other emotions.

To say his older siblings could sympathize would be an understatement.  They stood right by him until his race was called.

He did amazing in the 25m freestyle.  Look at that eye and believe me when I say that this kid is focused as all get out when he wants to be.

And this shy little bunny didn't do to bad herself.  Not a tear to be shed this year--just fun times.

And, of course, my most competitive one lives and breathes for occasions like this.  In spite of the day spent sliding at baseball camp, he blasted the 50m free for the 10U boys, coming from behind off the wall to win and knock two seconds off his personal best.  All this awesomeness was fueled almost exclusively by McDonald's french fries.  Inexplicable, so I've stopped trying.

Where was Madeleine?  She's not entirely off the hook.  Instead of participating on the swim team, she attends practices and joins the group in the spare lane on the end to swim a workout of her own choosing.

Fuel up, Team Roberts, for swim team season is now upon us.  Or, as you like to say, "Eat my bubbles!"

Why All the Sports? The Answer Surprised Even Me

2013 Seahawks

Life in our family of seven has been particularly hectic these days, and I have one good reason for it: youth sports.  We've been consumed with sports of late, with children playing on a junior baseball team, an older baseball team, and a tween softball team.  My husband coaches two of these teams, thus requiring much in the way of behind-the-scenes equipment juggling, scheduling shuffling, and pep talks.

That's six games per week for anyone who's counting, which comes to roundabout fifty games crammed into the nights and weekends of two already-busy school months, plus the bimonthly Sunday workouts of the triathlon team that the kids started in early April.

2014 Marlins

2011 Mets

2014 Rays

So why would we subject ourselves to this much in the way of sports?  This question was posed to me last month, and between repeated kamikaze Chick-fil-A drive throughs, mass purchases of Goldfish and Gatorade, and the hauling of pop-up chairs and snack bags back and forth across the red, ubiquitous sand, I've been mulling it over ever since.  In LBK (life before kids), I was a grant writer for the National Alliance for Youth Sports, so I guess you could say that I was a professional on reciting the laundry list of why youth sports are important for kids.  Lifelong lessons in team building, good sportsmanship, physical fitness, and camaraderie rank at the top of this list.

However, not one of those is my reason for the grueling sports schedule we have willingly brought upon ourselves. 

Why then, you ask?


2013 Area Tallahassee Aquatic Club (ATAC)

2029 MVP

2014 St. Mark's Duathlon

Here's the thing: I once assumed being a parent meant that I would have a front-row seat to watching my kids grow up.  I believed I would be there to see the small moments, the daily interactions, the tiny successes and challenges that build into my children and gradually make them into the responsible, mature adults I hope they will be.

I would be the primary witness.

Not necessarily so.



2013 cross country team

2013 Titans

2014 Youth Triathlon Series

Instead, the front row seat is given to others, and I mostly run logistics.  I drop them off at the schoolhouse and the classroom door clicks behind them.  I wonder about their interactions during the span of those seven hours away.  What conversations did they have?  What did they learn?  Did they mind their manners?  Were they frustrated about something?  Did they have an insightful answer or a weak reply or a helpful suggestion? I deposit my children at Sunday school and pick them up again, but do I get to overhear what insights they shared or what they learned while apart from me that hour?

I'll never know these daily details, and frankly the hours spent away from my sight are significant.  I cannot watch huge chunks of their lives firsthand; I only hear the instant replay on the car ride home. 

I am relegated to second, and sadly parts of their childhood are obscured, lived out just beyond the horizon of Mom.

 2012 ATAC

2013 Gulf Winds Summer Track Series

2012 Seahawks

2013 Titans

Ah, but in sports - in sports - that is no longer the case.  It is my moment.  I am not rushing around prepping dinner, folding laundry, giving baths, helping with homework, answering four questions at once, or separated from them by a classroom wall. 

I have the liberty to take my seat, pause for a spell, hold my gaze steady and simply watch. Watch how they support and encourage their friends with tenderness when they fumble the ball.  See how they summon their courage to stand before a huge crowd and dive off the swim blocks in a mad wet rush for first place.  Witness how they strike out miserably, and with dried tear stains streaking their face, gain renewed hope as they walk to the plate once more.  

All the drama and effort of my flesh and blood, my most treasured possessions - I take it all in and come back wanting more.  Hands down, the most delicious hours of my life are spent at the ball fields, tracks, pools, and race courses of this town. 

I measure my kids' growth not by days marked off the calendar or penciled notches on the door, but by the increasing arc of their fly ball from the plate, their ever-accelerating speed on the track, the seconds off the stopwatch in the 100m free, the gradual arm strength to throw the touchdown farther and farther and farther down the field with each passing year.

I sit back comfortably in my portable chair - the yellow birthday present with the pop-up umbrella bought lovingly with kiddie tooth fairy money - then I fold my arms and give myself a squeeze and feel thankful for every glorious moment.

2009 Youth Triathlon Series

2012 ATAC anchor IM relay

2030 UF recruit

And oh the drama of it all.  It's spellbinding to me. 

My son stands quietly in the dugout, pensive and pinched, and I wonder from the bleacher zone what he is thinking. I see how he bows his sweat-stained brow and pauses. He puts his hand to the fence, looks out over the field. I lean in a little.  

Then my heart lifts as a familiar look of total focus crosses his face and determination glints in his eyes. Sure enough, in the next moment, he turns on his heel, confidently picks up his favorite bat, strides past dozens of spectators and hammers a smashing bullet to bring the runners home. 

I take in every minute detail, both subtle and obvious, and shake my head in wonder and appreciation. There is no place I'd rather be.

2014 Yankees

My daughter is only six and has a stitch in her side so badly she can hardly walk as she finishes up the run of her first-ever triathlon.  I helplessly look on, fighting all instincts to run to her, and wonder if she will quit. Somehow she swallows the pain between gulps of air and fast-flowing tears and finds the mental courage to finish strong. She leaps in her daddy's arms at the finish with the jubilation only a conquered challenge can bring.

2006 Red Hills Kids Triathlon

And before I know it, that same fair-haired six year old is an elegant young lady, happily sprinting to the finish without hesitation in the latest race, and suddenly in my heart I know that once I am gone, she will be okay.  In this race of life, she will dig deep and finish strong.  I know not because I was told but because I watched it with my own eyes.

A weight is lifted.

2013 Gladiator Challenge

2006 Red Hills Kids Triathlon

2007 Red Hills Kids Triathlon

2008 Red Hills Kids Triathlon

2012 Freedom Springs Triathlon

2013 ATAC Swim Invitational

Yes indeed, these splish splash, patter-pat, pop up, curve ball, touchdown moments are worth this mama seeking out and savoring. 

Even if the drive through dinner is not.

*A version of this post appeared on the National Alliance For Youth Sports website, seen here.

Happily Ever After

Sometimes things just aren't meant to be.

In this case, the race day mentioned here dawned with a Roberts lacing up the old pavement treaders....and it wasn't me.

Someone in this house had trained faithfully for a half marathon that never sells out. But this year it did. So he was all prepped and ready to go for an event so full that no race number was left over for his fit and eager self to claim.

I did what any chronically exhausted, slightly depressed, somewhat fearful, creaky and significantly out-of-shape mom-of-five would do: handed my Disney race number to him.  For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in fitness and in flab, till death do us part....

So in flamboyant Disney happy-ending style, my dear husband ran this weekend in a field of 20,000+ merry and highly costumed gals and 1,500 bold men, ending with a personal best for his time, an enormous smile, great memories of an incredibly entertaining course, and some big honkin' Princess bling to boot.

My (sweaty) prince.

Which he promptly gave to me.

And they all lived happily ever after...

Disney require racers to report to the race corral around 4 am and spectators aren't too far behind them.  They should give everyone a medal just for getting up that early.

With running behind him, we could all get to the serious business of fun.

Remember we are a competitive bunch.  Shucks! Mama loses yet again.

Stripey stripe stripe.

The little guy bawled 'cause he had to get off Dumbo when it was over.  Son, those are the unspoken rules of the ride.

Ahhhh, the mood swings of a toddler.

Goodbye, Disney.  Maybe one of us will shape up in more ways than one before next year's race rolls around again.