Thanks, Mom
http://www.atomicsportsmedia.com/articles/390/1/Thanks-Mom.html
Jesse Mosser
By Jesse Mosser
Published on 05/12/2006
It seems that parenting today involves so many planning strategies that Blackberries and Palm Pilots should be issued upon leaving every maternity ward in the country. However, when I was growing up my schedule was fairly easy to organize.
When August came it was time for buddy league football. Come November, I'd strap up the Nikes and hit the hard court for rec league basketball. Around April it'd be time to start playing catch because little league tryouts were just around the corner. Everyone would take July off and we'd start all over again.
I remember a lot of hot summers that were spent trying to figure out how to work a pair of overly-complicated football pants. It seemed that the only person who could squeeze those incredibly outdated hip pads into their respective pocket was dear old mom. She'd even take the time to wash my gear once or twice a week, despite the fact that they'd be dirty as ever 24 hours later— not from the actual practice, but from the unsanctioned pickup game that would inevitably take place following practice. I remember games on Saturday mornings when the cold, autumn winds nearly made
peripheral movement impossible. Nevertheless, I still remember hearing her cheers while watching a bunch of 11-year-olds run around and try to look like they knew what they were doing.
I recall mom trying to convince me to wear long underwear under my pads on those games in an apparent attempt to make me look like some sort of cross between Art Donovan and an Eskimo. I also remember standing in the huddle, shivering while snot and tears ran down my nose, wishing I had those long underwear.
I believe mom was also the one that walked home with me, win or lose, and told me what was for dinner while I stomped my cleats the whole way home to get the mud off. (Hey, they were the Deions.)
Every winter I believe she showed up to every game of rec league basketball to watch a son who was hopelessly inept on the court. I believe my career average was 0.3 points a game. That's not a joke. I can still distinctly remember each point I ever scored during my short and negligible basketball history. The thing is, I also remember my mom screaming when each of those points went in. Which was good for her because she could finally take a break.
The smell of the gym socks must have been atrocious. But the uniform was always clean.
Looking back, I can't believe she actually paid attention when I'd come home and say that I think we could win this week. Our team went winless on this particular season and only won twice the following year. As most moms do though, she quickly diverted the conversation to whether or not I worked hard in practice tonight. After spending fifth and sixth grade hopelessly trying to hone my skills with the rock, I decided to end my quest for round ball glory. To which she simply replied, "Whatever you think's best, hun."
I could only imagine the relief she must have felt and was restraining behind that look of concern.
I remember having her help me putting my oil-laden glove in the oven every April in anticipation of little league baseball. I remember going to multiple sporting goods stores trying to find the pair of baseball pants that fit and felt just right...and her keeping a straight face when her 10-year-old son asked her if he looked cooler when he rolled up his pant legs like Jackie Robinson.
I remember playing catcher while she sat behind the backstop with eye-drops ready to use when that stray clump of dirt slipped through the cracks in my mask. I recall the time I played on my birthday and she took the liberty of telling the umpire...who thusly took the liberty of telling everyone at the diamond. She was a saint the way she would check out the scores on the other diamonds so a dugout full of 12-year-olds could keep track of the league standings and their chances at winning this year's championship.
I remember she would oblige to my requests for her to fetch me a Gatorade while I was in the dugout. I also remember that she drew the line at a bag of Big League Chew.
Once again, the uniform was always clean. Except for that one time when it accidentally got placed in the same load as the whites and my jet black White Sox jersey came out looking like a mixture of gray and some hue of orange. The coaches called me "Bleach." I only cared for a little bit.
When I was a senior in high school I walked in front of the home stands at the last home football game of my life. I was standing side by side with about twenty other men whose moms had spent years keeping their uniforms clean over the years.
Except this time the uniforms weren't clean. They were stained with grass and mud from pre-game warmups and with the tears that were running down all of our faces. They were tainted by the realization that after years of playing a game, just because we could, that we would no longer have the privilege.
Of course it wasn't really their job anymore. We had all moved on to bigger things. We had a team manager that washed the uniforms now. We had grown up.
Just then my mom wiped some grass off my uniform.
"I'm proud of you," she whispered.
Thank you, mom. For everything.
Jess Mosser is a columnist for ASM and writes for The Post at Ohio University. You can reach him at jesse.mosser@atomicsportsmedia.com
With Mother's Day this weekend, ASM's Jess Mosser takes a look at what his mom meant to him from pee-wee football to rec league basketball to little league baseball. He also wants to know if she can wash his uniform.
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It seems that parenting today involves so many planning strategies that Blackberries and Palm Pilots should be issued upon leaving every maternity ward in the country. However, when I was growing up my schedule was fairly easy to organize.
When August came it was time for buddy league football. Come November, I'd strap up the Nikes and hit the hard court for rec league basketball. Around April it'd be time to start playing catch because little league tryouts were just around the corner. Everyone would take July off and we'd start all over again.
I remember a lot of hot summers that were spent trying to figure out how to work a pair of overly-complicated football pants. It seemed that the only person who could squeeze those incredibly outdated hip pads into their respective pocket was dear old mom. She'd even take the time to wash my gear once or twice a week, despite the fact that they'd be dirty as ever 24 hours later— not from the actual practice, but from the unsanctioned pickup game that would inevitably take place following practice. I remember games on Saturday mornings when the cold, autumn winds nearly made
peripheral movement impossible. Nevertheless, I still remember hearing her cheers while watching a bunch of 11-year-olds run around and try to look like they knew what they were doing.
I recall mom trying to convince me to wear long underwear under my pads on those games in an apparent attempt to make me look like some sort of cross between Art Donovan and an Eskimo. I also remember standing in the huddle, shivering while snot and tears ran down my nose, wishing I had those long underwear.
I believe mom was also the one that walked home with me, win or lose, and told me what was for dinner while I stomped my cleats the whole way home to get the mud off. (Hey, they were the Deions.)
Every winter I believe she showed up to every game of rec league basketball to watch a son who was hopelessly inept on the court. I believe my career average was 0.3 points a game. That's not a joke. I can still distinctly remember each point I ever scored during my short and negligible basketball history. The thing is, I also remember my mom screaming when each of those points went in. Which was good for her because she could finally take a break.
The smell of the gym socks must have been atrocious. But the uniform was always clean.
Looking back, I can't believe she actually paid attention when I'd come home and say that I think we could win this week. Our team went winless on this particular season and only won twice the following year. As most moms do though, she quickly diverted the conversation to whether or not I worked hard in practice tonight. After spending fifth and sixth grade hopelessly trying to hone my skills with the rock, I decided to end my quest for round ball glory. To which she simply replied, "Whatever you think's best, hun."
I could only imagine the relief she must have felt and was restraining behind that look of concern.
I remember having her help me putting my oil-laden glove in the oven every April in anticipation of little league baseball. I remember going to multiple sporting goods stores trying to find the pair of baseball pants that fit and felt just right...and her keeping a straight face when her 10-year-old son asked her if he looked cooler when he rolled up his pant legs like Jackie Robinson.
I remember playing catcher while she sat behind the backstop with eye-drops ready to use when that stray clump of dirt slipped through the cracks in my mask. I recall the time I played on my birthday and she took the liberty of telling the umpire...who thusly took the liberty of telling everyone at the diamond. She was a saint the way she would check out the scores on the other diamonds so a dugout full of 12-year-olds could keep track of the league standings and their chances at winning this year's championship.
I remember she would oblige to my requests for her to fetch me a Gatorade while I was in the dugout. I also remember that she drew the line at a bag of Big League Chew.
Once again, the uniform was always clean. Except for that one time when it accidentally got placed in the same load as the whites and my jet black White Sox jersey came out looking like a mixture of gray and some hue of orange. The coaches called me "Bleach." I only cared for a little bit.
When I was a senior in high school I walked in front of the home stands at the last home football game of my life. I was standing side by side with about twenty other men whose moms had spent years keeping their uniforms clean over the years.
Except this time the uniforms weren't clean. They were stained with grass and mud from pre-game warmups and with the tears that were running down all of our faces. They were tainted by the realization that after years of playing a game, just because we could, that we would no longer have the privilege.
Of course it wasn't really their job anymore. We had all moved on to bigger things. We had a team manager that washed the uniforms now. We had grown up.
Just then my mom wiped some grass off my uniform.
"I'm proud of you," she whispered.
Thank you, mom. For everything.
Jess Mosser is a columnist for ASM and writes for The Post at Ohio University. You can reach him at jesse.mosser@atomicsportsmedia.com