When I was a child, the beginning of summer was just that: a beginning. It was a time of what seemed to be endless possibilities. The countdown to the end of school usually started some time in the middle of May and built to a feverish crescendo that climaxed on or about June 5th, when the last textbooks were stacked in the multipurpose room and we were released into the warm June heat of the Virginia summer.
Early on as a child, I found, to my profound disappointment, that I was a failure on any number of sports courts and fields. Despite endless hours of practice with my naturally athletic cousins, I failed to find either proficiency or personal satisfaction on the baseball diamond, basketball court, or football field--three of the staple neighborhood sports at which boys that age usually excelled.
You can imagine my surprise--and delight--when, at the age of six, I discovered that I could swim! Not only stay afloat, but, with training and determination, I could traverse the length of the pool with enough velocity to compete with--and sometimes beat--my opponents.
It's no wonder that I looked forward to summer so much. I grudgingly suffered through three of the four seasons: football, basketball and baseball. But when the fourth season arrived--swimming--it was my time to shine. Relatively.
For a child who was routinely picked last--or nearly last--for most sports teams, I reveled in my 4th, 3rd, 2nd and the occasional 1st place ribbons I earned each Monday night from June through August. My parents, to their credit, never provided me with either excuses or rationalizations about my wins--or my losses. When I ended a swimming event--all splash and fury--only to find out I had finished an honorable "4th" I wasn't consoled with "You had a bad lane," or "You were swimming with the sun in your eyes," or worse, "The lane judge disqualified you because he doesn't like our team." (And believe it or not, I actually heard parents feeding their kids those lines when I was a swimmer, as well as years later when I was the coach of the team).
In fact, I wasn't really consoled at all. Instead, when I began my own rationalizations, my mom (usually) or dad (sometimes) would hand me a dry towel, look me in the eye and ask calmly: Did you do your best? As difficult as it was to admit that my "best" had only netted me 4th or 5th place, I would soberly reply, Yes. To which my parent(s) would reply, Then you did your best. And, today, in this race, others swam a little better then you did. Next week there will be another race.
Forty-odd years later, I can remember these moments as if they had happened yesterday. I came to look at these as our "no-excuses" moments. Just a realization that my best sometimes wouldn't be as good as somebody else's. And, more importantly, that my best was just fine. Now I suspect there may be some parents out there who will be horrified at my next statement, but here goes: Not only was my best "just fine," 4th, 5th--god forbid last--place was just fine, too. Because I gave it my all.
And, wet and shivering at pool's edge in the early evening chill of a June evening--my self-esteem was born.
Don't get me wrong. Satisfaction with my best didn't mean settling for 4th, 5th or last. It meant pushing myself to whatever personal best I was capable of. And, the summer I turned 14, for a few glorious weeks between our regional meet and state finals, I held the state record for the 50-meter backstroke. There were no parades, no newspaper articles, no celebrations of any kind that I remember. Just the self-satisfaction that, for a handful of days, not only had I finally beaten our city's golden-boy swimmer, Richard Hughes (his real name--sorry Richard) but I had--for just a moment--set the bar for that event. My best, for that brief time, was the best.
I'm not sure what caused that sweet memory from so long ago to surface now. Perhaps it's the fact that it's August and, my sense memory still lingers--August means that summer is winding down. School will be starting soon (in those days we squeezed every drop out of summer, starting school after Labor Day). Perhaps, it's because I see clients often struggle with the competitive nature of jobs--and life--in the Bay Area. Maybe, it's just the fact that, sometimes, the events of the world remind me that this is a time that feels...complicated. And the memories of affirmation--and brief victory--feel simpler, purer, more true.
Now, I'm the first to admit that my memory can be selective, embellished, and optimistic. But, in this instance, the memory of my experience--and the values imparted to me--is pretty much true to the time.
In the Virginia summer of my childhood, this would be the time of summer heat, humid nights, fans blowing cool breezes, lighting bugs at dusk and the winding down of lazy days.
Years later, I still feel late August is a time of anticipation. Of a new beginning. Of a new season. Of things unseen and unknown. And, because of my parents' refusal to rearrange reality to suit my life disappointments, I feel blessedly prepared to meet the unknown. Head-on.
Next week there will be another race.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
And thanks for listening.
No comments:
Post a Comment