Front Porch: Mother marks seasons by sports calendar year

My life can be mapped by ball fields.

The dust and mud of baseball fields; the windy, unshaded terrain of soccer fields; and the brightly illuminated green glow of football fields under the night sky. In addition, I’ve spent months inside stuffy gymnasiums echoing with the squeak of athletic shoes and the thudding of basketballs.

I can chart the seasons by what’s in the back of my minivan. In the winter, basketballs jostle with ski gear, stray gloves and soggy knit caps. Spring arrives with soccer balls clunking around in the trunk, and the odor of sweaty cleats permeating the air. Summer brings wet beach towels, stray flip-flops and small coolers filled with melting ice. Autumn means a car full of quilts, stadium chairs and mouth guards in my coffee holder.

Our refrigerator door is dotted with color-coded sports schedules. Every weekend my husband and I dole out sporting events like poker chips. “I’ll trade you one U-10 soccer game for two varsity matches.”

“I’ll see your two varsity games and raise you one Saturday swim lesson at the gym.”

This isn’t what I had in mind when I started having children 19 years ago. To be honest, my imagination kind of settled on soft cherubs snuggly wrapped in flannel blankets. But the cherubs sprouted wings and I’ve been trying to keep up with them ever since. My four sons have covered just about every sport, from wrestling to cross country running, and of course, so have I.

I’ve suffered sunburns during sweltering soccer tournaments, been in danger of frostbite at freezing football games, and I’ve been the snack mom – a lot.

I’ve amassed an impressive knowledge of sports rules and regulations. For instance, I can tell the difference between a ball and a strike when the umpire cannot. I know when a football player is offside, and that holding isn’t always an expression of affection. I’ve seen enough traveling in basketball to blow my own whistle. Unfortunately, I’m no longer allowed to wear my whistle to the games.

At first this immersion into the wide world of sports bewildered me. I come from a long line of sedentary people. My family doesn’t like to move. When forced to move we don’t power walk, we amble. We don’t like our gait to outpace our conversation.

Of course, I married a man whose family never sits still. His father is from Norway. In Norway, if you don’t move, you freeze to death. All Norwegians move. I’ll never forget the first time my mother-in-law asked me when my oldest child was going to start soccer. He was 4 and I was just hoping he’d learn how to tie his shoes.

I had watched my friends and sisters-in-law dash about from one sporting event to the next. Witnessed them frantically feeding toddlers in the backseat of the car en route to a sibling’s game, and toting exhausted babies in backpacks around ball fields.

“No way am I going to do that,” I said. And I didn’t – until my second son came along. He could kick a ball before he could walk. He had so much energy I’d find him perched on top of cabinets or dressers during naptime. Cribs could not confine him. He may have looked like me, but he was his father’s son, and so my introduction to athletics began.

Alex’s younger brothers tagged along and soon found their own sporting interests. Zachary explored cross country and baseball, and Sam discovered soccer and is begging to play basketball next year.

Now, at 16, Alex will soon be driving himself to his innumerable practices and games. That will be nice, but I won’t be sitting at home. I’ll be at his games on the sidelines, or in the bleachers, searching for his jersey, shouting his name. And of course, Sam still needs a snack mom/chauffeur.

But I wonder what will happen when I no longer chart the seasons by the sports schedules on my refrigerator? When I drive past ball fields filled with shouting players and cheering parents will I be tempted to slow down? Will I want to tell a tired mom: enjoy it all – the searing heat, the bitter cold, and games that never seem to end. Because they will end.

But at least once during the game, your child’s eyes will search for you along the sideline. And the memory of the way his face lights up when he sees you, will stay with you long after the field has emptied.