I dreamed last night that I received a diagnosis of terminal brain cancer. I woke up gasping and in tears, my heart pounding as I realized it was only a nightmare, not real life. My subconscious was already hard at work reassuring me that there are worse things than the loss of a big game. It can always be worse.
But short of a terminal diagnosis or the loss of a loved one, I think losing the biggest game of your young life ranks right up there. My golden girl, who has spent her whole life preparing for volleyball glory in her senior season, had her dreams cut short in the regional semi-finals last night. She had a taste of the triumph last year, when she played for a team that went the distance and took home the gold in a Cinderella season we were all dreaming of repeating. We did not. Not crying.
This was supposed to be her year. She has always been a starter and a go-to player, but last year she still lingered in the shadows of some spectacular seniors. This was meant to be her time. She finished last night’s match with 14 kills (for the non-volleyballers among you—that’s a lot) and told me through sobs after the game that she had been selected first team all-conference. She’ll take home some post season glory thanks to her hard work, but she won’t bring home the biggest prize of all—a state championship. Her goal was to make the state tournament team. She won’t now. Not crying.
The team has been in a slump, and the unforced errors and miscommunication that has plagued them the last few weeks weighed them down from the first point yesterday. Even our all-American looked flat, and my own superstar made errors that I fear may haunt her for life. I am not, of course, viscerally recalling the wide open layup I missed in a post season basketball game 25 years ago, when my team lost to an opponent we’d defeated twice in the regular season. These things do not linger in a young athlete’s heart over decades, regardless of later triumphs and defeats. Not crying.
There’s a quote in a favorite book of mine about the folly of giving one’s heart to a little dog to tear apart. It kept coming to my mind last night—only I changed the word “dog” to “sports”—as I thought about the wrenching ways our games—for they are only games after all—can tear at our hearts. It is a terrible and wonderful thing to give your heart and your dreams over to such a fickle master. I deeply wanted my children, especially my girls, to share my passion for sports, and now I wish I had steered this beautiful girl towards something more sedate and safe like Library Club or gardening. I should have protected her heart better and cautioned her in the dreaming of such big dreams. Not crying.
As the night wore on, I kept thinking there was more I should have done to prevent the terrible outcome that was becoming all too apparent. Sports’ mom superstition besieged me. Had I worn the wrong shirt? Sat in the wrong seat? Fed her the wrong pre-game dinner? Was the fact that my son kept moving her button from it’s designated place on my bathroom hand-towel—where I could pray over her beautiful face every morning when I woke up and every night before I went to bed—to blame? I didn’t even wear my red lipstick last night because the opposing team’s color was red. I wore my volleyball earrings and the button with Grace’s face on it. I tried to do everything I could think of—sensical and non-sensical—to achieve the desired outcome. And it wasn’t enough. The team wasn’t enough. She wasn’t enough. Not crying.
I’m not crying about the tears in my husband’s and my littles’ eyes, in my parents’ eyes, in her friends’ eyes, in my friend’s eyes as we tried to comfort one another after the shocking loss. I’m not crying that Grace’s two beautiful friends made a beeline for me after the game and cried with me and hugged me while Grace holed up with the team in the locker room. I’m not crying about the deluge of lovely, consoling messages I’ve received from friends and acquaintances since the defeat, or how the love and support of an entire school community has engulfed us from all sides. I’m not crying about the compliments I’ve received about our girl—“she’s so athletic and strong, she’s such a good leader, she’s such a hard worker. My kids look up to her, adore her, appreciate her.” I’m not crying that they seem to think I have anything to do with what makes her so wonderful—as though she didn’t come to us so brilliant and strong and all I had to do was stay out of her way and keep her safe. So many tears not being shed last night.
I tried to get my girl to eat something last night, but she refused, and afterwards we didn’t lie in her bed sobbing together, and I didn’t wish desperately that I could pull her onto my lap and nestle her head to my heart, soothing her with it’s beat as I was once soothed by the sweet scent of her baby shampoo and the steady rhythm of her breathing. I didn’t worry over who would hold her next year in these terrible moments of disappointment and defeat. It didn’t hurt to see she had erased all the encouraging phrases she had penned on her reminder board along with her goals for the remainder of the season. I didn’t cry to see the vicious streaks where she had wiped away the words “STATE CHAMP” from her mirror. It wasn’t hard to see the letter her little sister wrote her—assuring her of her ongoing admiration and encouraging her to stay strong--or to watch her tears drop onto the sweet belly of the puppy that seems best able to provide the comfort she needs. It’s just a game—it’s nothing to cry about. It’s just a stupid game.
I didn’t cry tonight when I walked in the door and she was home, not practicing with her team as she should have been for many weeks yet. I won’t cry when her eyes fill with tears over any mention of anything sport related. I didn’t cry at parent teacher conferences tonight when everyone wanted to relive the pain of the awful game and tell me again how amazing she is. I already know; I named her Amazing Grace. It’s just a stupid game. I’m not crying, you’re crying.
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