Another Game to Remember
Friday night Weslee begins to search for his pink knee socks. "I NEED them! It is Cancer Month, and we wear those on the field for Breast Cancer Awareness!" We look everywhere, cannot locate them. I agree to get another pair at Play It Again Sports, $5.00 !!!!! He gets his way at times, and then I could kick myself, when I am hurting for funds! I make him understand this is the last time I buy HIM pink socks for the month.
We volunteered to drive to the football game. Wes wanted some football cohorts to drive up to Springfield with us, so we asked John to help carry the extra car seat up to the garage. John was working with a roofer over the summer, trying to make a go of it here in the city, but carrying shingles in the hot Cincinnati summer is not for the faint. John built his muscles, and boasted, "I can walk up the ladder, carry up 23 packages of shingles in a day!" He looked like a different person than the tiny, chicken boned child I recalled from when he was 6! I would not want to meet him on some dark street, knit hat pulled over his big head, huge tattooed arms, knuckles covered in "brown pride" with some strange symbols on his hands and insults on the forearms... you get the picture- He was staying with us, "I just need some place to crash for a few days and wait for my last pay. I'm moving back to stay with my birth family." I have seen John go on the "yo-yo" trip several times, and remind him. "This is different. I will not repeat the same mistakes." While he is here, a knock on the door. Springfield police. He is a magnet. "The neighbors called about that black Escort. Is it yours?" I respond, "Its ok, sir. My son is here for a few days. He has his belongings in it."
We laugh, thinking about what the neighbors might think is in the junior refrigerator on the front seat, the boxes in the back, or that it looks like he was robbing the houses. "I'm still mad they thought I robbed the Pizza Hut that time!", John says. "It's the people you hung out with, John. Maybe the gang tattoos, too. The way you dress- that's all."
After all, he is just 18, and we all repeat a lot, before we "get the picture" of how our behavior is motivated, how to change, and how difficult any change really is. Here I am, at MY age, still not able to change my behaviors, knowing fully well what I should do, and what I do....
Saturday morning Weslee gets the extra seat installed where Chester's crate usually fits, and we drive to the High School, where we find out there are a LOT of cars driving to the game. I can save the gas money, and we can drive with others. I am thrilled, but Weslee is disappointed. On the pyramid of important things, we need to let our children experience a certain amount of minor disappointments, so that they have those feelings, are comfortable with them, can work through them, and understand it is part of life. I stand firm. He got his socks, I get to ride. He makes the "sacrifice" and goes with friends. It is a long, hour and a half ride, and we arrive at a windy, church field. The sun shines, and we hear from fellow Finneytown parents, the referees have given the wildcats in the lower grades hard calls. We hear the other players have uttered some "threats", played rough, where not needed. One of our fathers had been sent off the field.
After some struggles with the strong wind, we see our sixth graders enter. All the other teams had lost to the home teams, but our team is unbeaten. We hear about the other players threats to "cut them with knives" and the other mom goes to the playground, Mothers coming back are "trash talking" like on "TV with Jerry Springer, Cincinnati's Ex-Mayor" while we are trying to watch a sixth grade football game. Our guys are playing great, and I see no problem either with the players, referees, or coaches. I do have an issue with parent behavior and strong winds blowing over hats and chairs.
The first touchdown was made by Haydon, and he is wearing .....Pink socks. Haydon also made a second touch down in the game. The other team made none.
The father thrown out of the one game, decides to drive his black truck onto the grass, close to the sidelines, so that he can sit inside, unseen through the tinted glass, to continue watching this game causing even more "Steve Wilko" action. We have all stopped cheering for our team, seeing they are strong on the field, and wanting to keep the flames down on the sidelines. At halftime, I watch as my superstar, Wes number 17, gets a hand off at the center of the field, and side stepping a few opponents, just hightails it, pink socks whirling, to make a touch down. It is now 28 (I think) to zero. They hand off the ball to a huge, mighty opponent, hoping to get further down the field. Number seventeen, not a big player, but fast, runs across the field, flies up super hero style onto that young man, grabs him and will not let go. The football wielding man tries to make yardage, but with 80 pounds of boa constrictor shaking and pulling him down, he is lost, and falls to the ground. Little yardage. Little can be done to change the outcome of this game. The mighty wildcats win again! Tournament play begins next week.
We leave and stop at the McDonald's for a break with the several players in our cars. We stay a little longer than I had planned for if I had been a driver. I might have gotten home earlier.
Christy, a neighbor, texts, "Your lights are on, garage is open. Everything ok?"
I realize Thom is at work, the house lit up and open, John has gone North. We did not get to say "Good-Bye". I guess he just got tired of "waiting" for our return. He comes and goes, like the nomads, "folds up his tent, moves on silently, not to be seen or heard of until the next storm."
We volunteered to drive to the football game. Wes wanted some football cohorts to drive up to Springfield with us, so we asked John to help carry the extra car seat up to the garage. John was working with a roofer over the summer, trying to make a go of it here in the city, but carrying shingles in the hot Cincinnati summer is not for the faint. John built his muscles, and boasted, "I can walk up the ladder, carry up 23 packages of shingles in a day!" He looked like a different person than the tiny, chicken boned child I recalled from when he was 6! I would not want to meet him on some dark street, knit hat pulled over his big head, huge tattooed arms, knuckles covered in "brown pride" with some strange symbols on his hands and insults on the forearms... you get the picture- He was staying with us, "I just need some place to crash for a few days and wait for my last pay. I'm moving back to stay with my birth family." I have seen John go on the "yo-yo" trip several times, and remind him. "This is different. I will not repeat the same mistakes." While he is here, a knock on the door. Springfield police. He is a magnet. "The neighbors called about that black Escort. Is it yours?" I respond, "Its ok, sir. My son is here for a few days. He has his belongings in it."
We laugh, thinking about what the neighbors might think is in the junior refrigerator on the front seat, the boxes in the back, or that it looks like he was robbing the houses. "I'm still mad they thought I robbed the Pizza Hut that time!", John says. "It's the people you hung out with, John. Maybe the gang tattoos, too. The way you dress- that's all."
After all, he is just 18, and we all repeat a lot, before we "get the picture" of how our behavior is motivated, how to change, and how difficult any change really is. Here I am, at MY age, still not able to change my behaviors, knowing fully well what I should do, and what I do....
Saturday morning Weslee gets the extra seat installed where Chester's crate usually fits, and we drive to the High School, where we find out there are a LOT of cars driving to the game. I can save the gas money, and we can drive with others. I am thrilled, but Weslee is disappointed. On the pyramid of important things, we need to let our children experience a certain amount of minor disappointments, so that they have those feelings, are comfortable with them, can work through them, and understand it is part of life. I stand firm. He got his socks, I get to ride. He makes the "sacrifice" and goes with friends. It is a long, hour and a half ride, and we arrive at a windy, church field. The sun shines, and we hear from fellow Finneytown parents, the referees have given the wildcats in the lower grades hard calls. We hear the other players have uttered some "threats", played rough, where not needed. One of our fathers had been sent off the field.
After some struggles with the strong wind, we see our sixth graders enter. All the other teams had lost to the home teams, but our team is unbeaten. We hear about the other players threats to "cut them with knives" and the other mom goes to the playground, Mothers coming back are "trash talking" like on "TV with Jerry Springer, Cincinnati's Ex-Mayor" while we are trying to watch a sixth grade football game. Our guys are playing great, and I see no problem either with the players, referees, or coaches. I do have an issue with parent behavior and strong winds blowing over hats and chairs.
The first touchdown was made by Haydon, and he is wearing .....Pink socks. Haydon also made a second touch down in the game. The other team made none.
The father thrown out of the one game, decides to drive his black truck onto the grass, close to the sidelines, so that he can sit inside, unseen through the tinted glass, to continue watching this game causing even more "Steve Wilko" action. We have all stopped cheering for our team, seeing they are strong on the field, and wanting to keep the flames down on the sidelines. At halftime, I watch as my superstar, Wes number 17, gets a hand off at the center of the field, and side stepping a few opponents, just hightails it, pink socks whirling, to make a touch down. It is now 28 (I think) to zero. They hand off the ball to a huge, mighty opponent, hoping to get further down the field. Number seventeen, not a big player, but fast, runs across the field, flies up super hero style onto that young man, grabs him and will not let go. The football wielding man tries to make yardage, but with 80 pounds of boa constrictor shaking and pulling him down, he is lost, and falls to the ground. Little yardage. Little can be done to change the outcome of this game. The mighty wildcats win again! Tournament play begins next week.
We leave and stop at the McDonald's for a break with the several players in our cars. We stay a little longer than I had planned for if I had been a driver. I might have gotten home earlier.
Christy, a neighbor, texts, "Your lights are on, garage is open. Everything ok?"
I realize Thom is at work, the house lit up and open, John has gone North. We did not get to say "Good-Bye". I guess he just got tired of "waiting" for our return. He comes and goes, like the nomads, "folds up his tent, moves on silently, not to be seen or heard of until the next storm."
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