The Champion's Race

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Last night I had the privilege of watching my son fly.  By this I mean he was whipping across the track so fast, it seemed as if his feet had ventured up into the air with the currents of his speed and taken flight.

I get excited when I see him run.  It is in this experience that I can live for a moment.  For me, we merge as if I were him and he were me.  I'm not one of those parents who puts pressure on their child to do what I choose for him.  No, I have no desire to live vicariously that way.  But, I will say, it is exhilarating for me to watch my child choose to do something I was so passionate about when I was his age.

In  high school I wanted desperately to be apart of a sports team.  My gift was running and choreographing/performing dance, but my mother, who encouraged my gifts, also only wanted me to use them so long as I didn't have to travel away from town to compete.  This left me in quite the dilemma.  My passions desired to be expressed and bloom, but my mother would not allow them to grow outside of her grasp.  I won't deny that I became embittered by this; especially when my dance instructor called my mother directly to ask if I could join the drill team.  There would be no need for me to audition because the instructor/coach was so impressed with my abilities she automatically included me in the cut. All she needed was for my mother to give her the approval.

There was a deja vu experience in my head as I stood by and watched my instructor explain why I would be a good addition to the team.  Her head drooped, just a little bit, as she listened to my mother speak.  I could already see disappointment get up to walk over and make company with me yet again.

I had first become acquainted with disappointment, as it related to sports team participation, in junior high when I tried out for the track team, and made it, running just one second short of the fastest boy in school. I proudly carried the label of the fastest girl around as if I had already won the champion's medal.  When I got home, I told my mother what happened to me at school, fully expecting her to be as excited as I was.  She was excited until she learned I would have to travel out of town on occasion for the meets. The disappointment of chasing my track star dreams met me on that day.  I was bound to being on the sideline while my friends pursued the cut.

Now, I sit on the sidelines watching my child and feeling just as exhilarated as I was when my coach first told me she wanted me for her team.  The nerves in my legs come alive and spark the adrenaline over my whole body.  I can imagine my son's nerves doing the same thing as he makes his way to his mark. I'm propelled forward in a loud cheer as he leaps into action after the sound of the gun pierces the air. My heart pounds along with his as he passes swiftly by me, and races toward the finish line.  My breath is stolen away in awe as  my son steals the place of the runners he now transcends in speed.  Finally, the great rush of victory covers us like a warm blanket.  His triumph is mine as well. To me, he is the champion of champions, and the expression of my dream.