As challenges go, today rates right up there…
Beth Hart wailed me to a good start, and as I exited my car in a driving downpour in order to pump gas, I anticipated the opportunity to “fluff” the raindrops into my hair, accentuating the “bed-head” look I had embraced on hearing the weather forecast.
Rhonda Byrne purred in my ear, between guitar riffs, and time stood still, once again.
The morning went swimmingly. As a controlled chaos persisted in my periphery, I was neither needed, nor involved, and managed to complete a trying Sudoku while ferrying telephone calls.
Curry, for lunch, was the perfect antidote to the dreary landscape outside the office windows. I finished, with fifteen minutes of my self-imposed time limit to spare, and used the time to check in on friends.
And then it began…

As my chair rolled to a stop in front of the telephone, it began to ring, and the noise didn’t let up for the next three hours. As soon as I disconnected my head-set with a promise to fax requested information, the ringing began, again. A yellow legal pad/desk blotter/armrest filled quickly, with the names and demographic information of prospective clients, and, as I struggled to keep all their balls in the air, the “right” side of my brain appreciated the interest, while the “wrong” side wondered when I would have time to satisfy all their demands.
One particularly eager client called five times in less than an hour. I memorized his telephone number, without effort, as it repeatedly paraded across my Caller ID, and, on seeing it, yet again, I squelched the desire to tell him he had absolutely no chance of qualifying; choosing, instead, to press “hold” as I collected my positive wits about me.
As the “big” hand on the clock over my desk creeped towards freedom, I turned my thoughts to the evening, and my son’s basketball game.
“Got a game tonight!”, I called through a co-worker’s open office door. “I’m hoping for another double-digit game!”
“Cool!”, he answered without raising his head. “Good luck!”
Pewter colored clouds, floating overhead, promised more precipitation, as I rolled to a stop, in rush-hour traffic. I remembered the forecast, and hoped the dark clouds would hang around long enough for the temperature to drop, while making a mental note to warn my northernmost friends of the darkness blowing their way. And later, while riding the passenger seat, on the way to the gym, I clutched my jacket about me, while thrilling at the obviously plummeting temperature, and the continuing chance of snow.
Sharing a spot along the gym wall with friends I hadn’t seen since football season ended, I readied my camera. As I positioned it, in anticipation of a “moment”, my friend leaned in to point out how short our players were in comparison to the other team. I smiled, benignly, while setting up the shot.

Play ensued, and our sons’ challenges became quickly apparent. Unfortunately, they had nothing to do with height. The score became lopsided, long before the halftime break, and I cringed at the expression on my son’s sweaty face, while determining to remind him of the importance of positive leadership after the game was over.
As we exited the gym, I drew my jacket closer, and lowered my head against what I hoped were snow-bearing winds. My son and I danced anxiously, outside the SUV, while his father/coach gave a trite-ridden, post-game speech to a supportive mother.
Three car doors slammed with emphasis, obscuring the first few words of my son’s post-game diatribe. A team-mate, touting an as yet unproven pedigree, had loudly announced his intention to quit the team. I listened as the two of them shared their experiences and opinions on the night’s activity.
A jar of peanut butter sat beside a sheaf of buttery crackers on the holiday-themed placemat in front of him. My son’s hand disappeared inside the peanut butter jar as I took a seat at the table beside him, while his father retraced his steps, in search of his jacket. Their conversation continued, as though uninterrupted, as I waited for a pause.

“Found it!” Roger’s call came from an adjacent room.
“You need a defense.”, I ventured.
Shane chewed as his father re-entered the room with purposeful, rubber-soled strides.
“Do you run plays?”, I asked. “I didn’t see plays. Do you have any?”
Roger’s head dropped to one hand as he slid onto a padded wooden chair.
“They won’t do it.”, he answered. “I tried. They won’t do it. Did you hear me calling “three”? That’s a play.”
“It’s a “pick-and-roll”, right?” Shane’s voice begged for confirmation.
“What about half-time?”, I asked, while re-running visions of seven aimless eleven year-olds, heaving the ball at the goal, in a game of “Me, first”.
“You can’t introduce plays at half-time!” The face Roger lifted from his hand was florid. “There’s not enough time! You don’t do that!” He paused to reposition his head inside his hand, while moving, from frustration, to defeat. “I tried.”
“Ok, so it’s only the second game of the season, and you’ve given up trying to teach plays?”, I asked.
“Mom!” This time, Shane spoke through a mouthful of butter-coated crackers. “He stopped after the second practice!”
“They don’t get it.”, Roger finished.
“I’ve seen it done.” My voice was resolute; full of experience, positive, and sure.
“When?” Roger rose up, placing his hands upon the table.
“Mandledove.”, I answered, simply, sedately; invoking the name of a former coach.
Rising to his full-while-seated height, color filled his face, and his voice, and frustration, flowed from his mouth.
“I’m sick of hearing about Mandledove! So, I suck!” He sucked a breath. “I suck at coaching.”

Numbers floated across the surface of my mind as I struggled to decide, at which point in puberty, his maturation had stunted.
“You’re a good coach, Dad.” Shane’s voice, free of buttery debris, remained weak, and indecisively supportive.
And, I watched, as a fifty-year-old man gave up, while an eleven-year-old boy struggled to determine the difference between what was real and what was important; and, I learned.
I learned that a positive outlook must be desired before it can be obtained.
And, with that, I raised my hand, in the universal sign of surrender, before training my eyes upon my son.
“Two minutes until shower time.”

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll