Now I know how my nine-year-old felt his first day of Little League.
On the playground, he’s the king of baseball. But among kids who’ve been playing serious ball since age five, he was destined for the outfield. Much to his chagrin, Sammy showed up to that first practice with the wrong shoes, the wrong mitt, the wrong underwear, for heaven’s sake.
The coach was gentle and encouraging, but my boy was no longer so sure about this foray into a new team sport. I was gentle and encouraging too, but I had no idea what I was talking about.
Until this evening.
I just returned from my first workout with the Master’s Swim class at our local pool. One hour of kick-ass, swim team-style drills among my friends and neighbors. I joined the class on a whim yesterday afternoon, enticed by a flyer at the Rec Center beckoning me back into the pool.
I used to swim. Really I did. It’s just that I’ve been so busy jogging with the dog, I haven’t had the time. This would be perfect. One hour, four nights a week. $170 from June through August. As impulse purchases go, it was much better than a purse or a new Cuisinart.
What was I thinking?
Everything aches. I think there’s a corner of my nose that doesn’t hurt. And my big toe. But that’s about it. Among mere mortals, I’m decent in the pool. I’ve never been on a swim team; my form is pretty mediocre; but I can hold my own in the water. Or so I thought.
Will I go back tomorrow? You bet. When I walked in the door, soggy and exhausted, my son – the baseball player who snagged a grounder in right field last night, then smoothly threw it to first – greeted me with an enormous hug.
We’ve agreed to check back on our progress at the end of the summer. I’ll be the one doing vertical kicks in the deep end with a smile on my face. He’ll be the one chomping bubble gum, smacking the ball well beyond the infield.
Stars? Probably not. But no one can say we weren’t up for the challenge.