JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I'm writing this
sitting at an archery range. Not inside, where the shooting is going
on, but in the echoing outer room, where the overflow parents sit on
plastic chairs and talk about equipment and tournaments. Why, you may
ask, am I here? For one reason, dear reader: I've been deeply unlucky
in my children's choice of sports.
Now on one hand, I
recognize my privilege. I'm not a hockey mom, who has to get up at
3:30 because the middle school players' ice time is at 4am. I'm not a
swim mom, paying $$$ toward the team – I could never understand why
swimming was so expensive! Surely twenty centimeters of Lycra can't
cost that much. I've never had to put in hours and hours of
fund-raising time like the football moms, although to be fair, I've
brought in quite a few casseroles and plates of brownies and bought
more than my share of candles and wrapping paper for the drama club.
(Let's not even talk about the mattress sale. Dear God.)
But here's the
thing: those moms at least get to watch spectator sports. Hockey and
football games are exciting! I've paid good money to watch them.
Basketball is fast-paced and exciting. Swimming is explosive and you
get to sit in a warm, moist environment.
My two older kids
did cross country. If there's a more mind-numbing sport to watch, I
can't think of it. At least with curling, you can see all the
players. With cross country, you stand at the edge of a field,
bundled against the growing autumnal cold, and cheer wildly as your
student-athlete races off with a pack of teammates and
competitors...to vanish into the woods. Then you wait. And wait. And
wait. Finally, after a half hour or so, the first runners come back
out of the woods, and the more determined parents start cheering
again. (There are always a few so resolutely peppy and full of spirit
you secretly want to key their Volvo station wagons in the parking
lot.)
They also did indoor
track, and track and field, two sports that involve waiting around
for interminable periods of time between races and other events.
During the winter indoor track season, you try not to die of
heatstroke in the arena, and in track and field you need binoculars
to spot your kid because the events are spread out over an area the
size of the Pentagon. Also? You never, ever know how your kid did
with running sports. I would ask, “What was your time?” only to
hear, “I dunno. Coach will tell me Monday.” The scoring is so
arcane the officials don't know who “won” a track and field meet
until two days after the event takes place. I believe they use slide
rules to calculate the total points.
(The Sailor followed
up cross country with rowing in college, which has a similar long,
long stretch when parents are left staring at the river with no boats
in sight. The bright spot is that no one judges you for drinking
cherry whiskey at a regatta.)
In the past two
years, Youngest has taken up archery, a sport that combines the
visual thrill of cross country with the clear, simple scoring of
track and field and as an added bonus, requires upgrading some piece
of equipment every three months. It's true that archery sounds
exciting – Robin Hood! Merida! The wind in your hair as you fire
off shot after shot!
Needless to say,
it's a little more constrained in real life. The instructor sets up
the targets, then pipes a little whistle to tell the archers to take
their position. Once the field is clear, the instructor pipes again.
Everyone shoots three arrows. Then they all wait until the last
person has shot, and when the instructor deems the field clear she
pipes again and they all retrieve their arrows. This ritual, as
inflexible as a Japanese tea ceremony, is of course designed to make
sure no one gets an accidental arrow in the butt. However, for the
patiently waiting parent...zzzzzzzz.
The targets are
fifty-four feet down what looks like a bowling alley, and don't tell
Youngest, but I can't make out if she shot well or not. As long as
the arrow doesn't bounce off the floor, it's all the same to me.
She's elated or cast down by arrows that hit a few centimeters apart,
and I try to follow her lead. The tournaments are just as fast paced,
with the additional bonus that the spectators must remain absolutely
silent. It's like watching the
chess grandmaster tournament, if the game boards were eighteen yards
away and you didn't have the cultured British announcer whispering,
“Karspinsky has just executed the Dunning-Kruger move!”
Oh
well. At least she's not interested in riding. Right, honey? Right?
How
about you, dear readers? Tell us your sports stories in the
comments...
