Slow and Steady

My son had his first soccer game of the spring season last night.

It's his ninth season in a sport that he enjoys more than any other, and it was good for him to get back onto the field and be active again after a sedentary winter.

But even after shaking off the rust and revving his body up to full speed, he's still nowhere near the physical level of the other kids on his team. Or on most of the other teams for that matter.

After all this time, you'd think I'd be used to it by now. But I still cringe a little to see him lumber up and down the field on legs that just aren't built for speed.

He tries. He tries really hard.

But he gets frustrated with comments from his teammates like, "You should've beat that kid to the ball," or "How come you're going so slow?"

And, of course, he never hears sideline cheers directed at him. Even when he does get his foot on the ball, and I'm shouting, "Good defense!" to him, it's not quite the same as when a dozen sets of parents are whooping it up for a kid after he scores a goal or makes a big booming kick down the field.

I wish those parents could see my son's test scores, or his poetry, or the essay he wrote on Theodore Roosevelt. I wish they could see him reading Time Magazine and debating government bailouts with me.

The cerebral stuff will never be exciting in our sports-obsessed society.

All these parents see in my son is a very shy, unusually quiet boy with slow reflexes and a heavy-footed gait.

I should just relax and realize that there's something special about the fact that he's participating at all. He knows he can't keep up with the other kids, but he still wants to sign up each soccer season.

Like the tortoise in the Aesop fable, he doesn't quit. He sets a slow and steady pace for himself and keeps moving forward. I know he'll get to where he's going and end up a winner.