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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
My intention had been to park myself 300 metres from the finish line to cheer my son on in the final stretch of the cross country race.
But, as he passed me by, his little face bright red from exertion, his breathing laboured, I suddenly found myself running, too.
Saner, more stationary parents of his third-grade classmates fell by the wayside. Clichéd words of support like “you got this, buddy!” and “push, push, push!” spewed out of my mouth as I chased him to the end of the race.
I didn’t used to be like this. Growing up, I wasn’t interested in sports. Playing or watching. I found nothing more boring than my brothers discussing games or the latest trade rumours. I had no interest in following professional sports and was mystified as to why the happiness of crowds of people was contingent on the blue guys beating the red guys.
Then I had children, two girls and a boy. And they were interested in sports, all the sports. Both playing and watching. I encouraged it. I had an idea that athletics would teach them teamwork, fair play and being a good loser and winner. All those life lessons parents hope their children will learn.
But I was not prepared for how much I would get from their athletic endeavours. How much I would be entertained by, be invested in, and learn from their competitions. How much I would care.
This did not happen immediately. Watching little kids chase a soccer ball around in a pack is cute, but for maybe five minutes, at most. Same with waiting (and waiting) for a child to contact a ball with a bat. Or sitting in a cold rink watching children “learn how to skate,” most of them splayed and crying on the ice.
But then, when they got old enough to start competing, it got fun.
I first noticed that I wasn’t bored at my eldest daughter’s basketball games. They were making baskets and sharp passes and seizing rebounds. It was competitive. I found myself standing and cheering. I started to use previously foreign words like “hustle.” I was aggressively clapping and pumping my arms.
It kept happening. Watching a Grade 6 girls’ extracurricular touch football game, I thought, “why am I so nervous? So excited?” The stakes could not have been lower. No one’s scholarship or path to the Olympics was on the line. This was not life and death, but tell my body that. My heart was racing. My hands sweaty. I was genuinely disappointed when the ball was dropped. I cared if we won. I was unrecognizable to myself.
The fire of competition had never burned bright in me. My one attempt to join a competitive tennis ladder ended quickly when I could not bring myself to call my opponents’ shots out. It felt impolite to me to do otherwise.
But, watching my daughter and her soccer teammates storm down the field, going after the ball, unapologetically celebrating each goal, politeness be damned, I was inspired. I questioned why I would ever think that that wasn’t exactly how I should behave, not just as an athlete, but as a person. Don’t be afraid to take up space. Don’t be afraid to charge forward with determination and pursue what you want. Don’t be apologetic for well-earned success.
I tried out my new identity as a competitive athlete first against my eight-year-old son during a ball hockey game. I gave him a bit of shoulder to the sternum. I used my size advantage to stickhandle the ball out of his reach. After I scored, I pumped my fist in his face and yelled, “Yes!”
Immediately ashamed, I apologized. He looked at me quizzically and said, “That’s how you should always play, mama.” I realized that maybe it’s not much fun to play against someone who isn’t trying their hardest.
I can’t get over how inspirational I have found watching kids play sports. The unrelenting positivity and encouragement of my daughter’s volleyball team: hugs, cheers and high-fives, whether the point is for or against them. The resilience of my son’s hockey team as the puck drifts past their goalie again and again, but they get back on the ice for the next shift and continue to play hard to the end. The enormous bravery it takes to try out for any of these teams in the first place.
Beyond the lessons I have learned from my kids’ sports, I also just really like cheering them on. How often in life can we loudly and proudly shout our support for other humans? Or applaud a child as they work hard at something they have fun doing, for no ulterior purpose or larger goal? It feels cathartic and energizing to unabashedly whoop and holler, encouraging their efforts and celebrating their victories, small and large.
The paths my kids take in life will lead them to fields of endeavour where their successes and failures are less public than on a sports field. I might not be running beside them shouting words of encouragement. But, perhaps, they will still hear my voice, telling them they are strong and can do hard things, and they’ll know that I will always be cheering them on.
Margot Finley lives in Toronto.