Why Try When Quitting Is So Much Easier?

 Today, I got to think about the idea of quitting.  Its something I’ve become pretty adept at over the last couple of years.  Running has ground to a halt, as has writing, gardening, traveling and on and on.  For a long time, it was that life was just getting in the way and after a while, quitting was just so much easier than swimming upstream. 

Enter my eldest. 

Avery has always impressed me.  She is a high school senior for ~checks watch~ another 28 hours.  When she graduates she will walk with a few honors from honor societies, the seal of biliteracy and acceptance into every school she applied to.  She’s a remarkable kid and of last night, she will also walk having been part of a state champion soccer team. 

Its that last one I’m writing about. 

You see, it initially looked like Avery had played in her last game at Fossil Ridge before the season even began.  It’s a super competitive program and it didn’t look like she had made the cut.  She was invited to be the team manager, which she accepted.

Good for her, no way I would have done it, but she’s cut from different cloth, I guess. 

But here’s the thing about her.  She’s quiet but that shouldn’t be confused for complacent.  She got home from the tryouts and the offer to be manager and she was obviously upset.  I knew she was upset because she elected to go for a run at nine o’clock at night.  Its not the time that’s was the dead giveaway, it was the run part.  She hates “going for a run”.  Hates it in a way that the normal person hates intestinal flu.  The fact that she was going for a run was concerning to say the least.

She was running, sure, but what she was doing was hatching a plan. 

That plan included being the team manager, endearing herself to the team and coaches and busting her ass for a few weeks to get stronger and faster.  She worked out daily, went to the field and practiced skills and shooting, she ran, she worked on cardio and built herself up.

When she was ready, she asked the coaching staff for another chance.  She wanted to try out again.

NOTE: As her father, I couldn’t be prouder.  However, as a former participant in competitive sports I had genuine doubts on a variety of plains.  Would they say “no”? If they let her tryout, what would that look like?  What if her work wasn’t enough?  What if she did all of this just to miss out again? 

Honestly, to my surprise, they agreed to let her give it another go.  It wouldn’t be a traditional tryout.  She would practice with the team and they would evaluate her in comparison to her teammates.  They also let her know that this was no layup.  It would be an honest evaluation and her odds weren’t great. 

One practice went by, then two, three, four.  No answers, not a word.  They played a game with no answer, and went into the weekend with another game.  No decision. 

I was genuinely assuming the worst when Avery called me at my desk.  “Guess what, Padre (the name she has called me since I can remember), I got my kit.”

Not to say I’m not really a soccer aficionado, but I had no idea what that meant.  I thought it was something for her art class perhaps.

Her kit is her soccer uniform.  She had made it. 

She went from cut, to team manager, to player to state champ.  Now, that doesn’t mean she scored the tournaments winning goal and won the MVP.  She was among a bunch of girls that didn’t see a ton of playing time in the tournament. There were girls that were committed to Division 1 schools for soccer on the field. There were offensive stars, a defensive wall and a goalie that gave up one goal in the tournament.  What all of those girls have in common is that they are state champions.  Four or Five hundred girls have played varsity soccer at Fossil Ridge over the years, this two dozen are the only ones who can say they held the title.

The lesson here, girlies?  It goes back to the quitting thing.  Avery, you didn’t quit when many would have, when I would have.  I admire of so many aspects of you, but this one caught me off guard.  I knew how bright you are, how kind, how generous and pretty and funny.  This thing caught me out of the blue and I couldn’t be prouder. 

I guess them message is this, it ain’t over until you say its over.  Something about a well-worn path and the road less travelled.  Lately I’ve taken the easy path far too often.  Congratulations, Avery, on all of your accomplishments.  On graduation, and soccer, and your art and everything else.  You are an inspiration.  I can’t wait to see where your path takes you.

Quarterbacks, Balloons and Goldfish

We have a saying in our house “Balloons and Goldfish”.  What that refers to, are things that are temporary and need to be enjoyed in the “now”.  It was always a way of softening the inevitable blow of a pet floating upside down in the tank or a balloon becoming a handful of latex garbage. 

It also may have been a mistake.

Balloons and goldfish may offer the feeling of loss that a three-year-old can wrap their little head around.  Hopefully they move from balloons to goldfish to maybe a cat running away to a harsh breakup.

That last one is the one to focus on today.  My middle, Macy, is a striking young lady.  She is pretty, funny, athletic, has a great sense of humor and impeccable fashion sense.  She is, even to thirteen-year-olds young eyes, a catch.

A catch in the way that you expect her to be the kind of girl that wins prom queen and dates the quarterback. 

The latter is in fact true, that is, true until yesterday.

Macy had a boyfriend (or a middle school version of one) who was the QB of the school’s football team.  “Had” is the functional word in that sentence. 

The young QB, we’ll call him ‘Lance’ for the purposes of this story.  Lance decided he needed his freedom.  No problem. Certainly didn’t expect her first dip into romance to be her last. 

Balloons and goldfish. 

The problem is twofold.  The first is that he did the deed via text.  It was out of the blue and not the most articulate thing in the world (excusable as he is only thirteen).  The second problem is his social media post saying that he is “single and taking applications”.  Funny? Sure, but I’m his ex’s dad so he’ll obviously wind up on the wrong side of this blog post. 

In all actuality, 'Lance' is a good kid who dipped his toe into the dating pool for the first time as well.  He’s a stand-up guy but of course his breakup was awful.  He’s never done it before.  The nice thing was that one lesson seemed to stick with Macy.

“Balloons and goldfish” and apparently romances with thirteen year old quarterbacks are all things that don’t last.  She took it fine and the two are actually back to being friends. 

The lesson here little ladies?  Its simple, boys are dumb.  It’s true, but it’s a little more nuanced than that.  Boys are dumb, but they get better.  They get better, but that’s much later.  In their early teens they are just trying to figure it all out, their bodies, their place, and girls.  In their late teens they are trying to figure out their place and girl’s bodies.  In their twenties, its college and work and moving out of their mother’s basements.  Thirties?  Figuring out what happened in their twenties.  Forties involve wives and kids and homeownership and plumbing and heating and groceries.  Fifties?  I’ve just started those and I still have no idea about girls, the ones my age or my daughters.  So, I guess I’ll speculate that boys cease being dumb in their sixties. 

In all honesty, if you want a boy to like you, find a sincere one.  One that sticks up for you when times are tough.  One that respects the people around him.  One that does things for you even when it is in contrast to what he wants to do himself.  Find one that will go to the craft store with you  even if he kicks and screams the whole time and one that will take you to restaurants and movies that he doesn’t like. 

And here’s the tough part ladies, be someone that will do the same for your partner.  Relationships are about compromise and sacrifice.  As you date in middle school and high school and college and in the work world, look for someone who is willing to sacrifice and willing to compromise (and one that can cook isn’t the worst thing either).

 

 

 

What Color Are Mermaids Anyway?

 

I work online and therefore; YouTube tends to be the soundtrack of most of my days.  I listen to the news, music, audio books and movie trailers.  I listen to stand up comedy, sports blogs and spoilers.

And movie and television reviews.   

It’s the last one that I’m writing about today.   

A few years ago, there was a rumbling of Idris Elba playing James Bond.  To me, he’s a perfect fit.  Handsome, sophisticated and a better-than-capable action star. 

The internet did not agree.  Not because he couldn’t act, or he has some personal history that would disqualify him.  James Bond is traditionally played by white actors, and Elba, while sophisticated, has a pigmentation issue that the internet couldn’t abide.

To date, he still hasn’t gotten the role.

Recently, another role was being awarded. There is a live action version of The Little Mermaid being released, and unlike the 007 series, they cast an African American in the title role.  The internet couldn’t let that slide. 

Over a million people “disliked” the trailer and some of the responses to the coming attraction are downright despicable. 

It seems closed minded and ignorant to put ones preconceived notions above the direction of the film maker who is laying out hundreds of millions of dollars to make their vision. 

In the James Bond example, the objection to a black actor seems awful, in the Little Mermaid, silly.

I’ll explain. 

Not having Idris Elba play Bond doesn’t make sense.  It’s simple racism.  Racism or terrible taste in actors.  The Little Mermaid is a different animal altogether. 

The Little Mermaid is the story of an underage half fish, half teenager who decides that she was born in the wrong body and longs to be transformed into a human so she can be with a guy without fish parts. 

Her father objects to her trans desires so she seeks out someone who can perform the procedure without her father’s approval.  In the end, her dad finally, despite her only being sixteen years old, approves of her transformation and marriage.

So, here’s the rub.  People (which may be a loud but small number) object to the skin color of a fictional species but have no problem with her trans lifestyle or the fact that her betrothed is eager to engage in interspecies shenanigans.  Seems like a tremendous oversight.  Maybe as bad as ignoring that Elsa’s parents locked her in her bedroom for a decade because she was different. 

The point here little ladies?  Beyond the fish fetish issues?  Its that what’s on the outside really doesn’t matter.  The young lady playing Ariel in The Little Mermaid can act and she is a heck of a singer.  That’s really all that should matter.  The vitriol over a black stormtrooper, or James Bond or mermaid is inexplicable.  In reality, it applies to your day-to-day life as well.  If someone doesn’t wear just the right clothes, or carries a little extra weight or is somehow different than you, let it go, or on second thought, embrace it. We are all the ‘different’ one at one point or another and how great was it when someone understood you or just spent time with you.  For some people, being different isn’t a phase.  Being of a different race, or gender or having a different sexual identity or having a handicap or literally anything else that can offer someone a way to see them as “other” is a way of life.  It doesn’t have to be a bad one.  Different does not equal bad, disliking someone for being different does.