This boy of mine collided with another player, forehead to head, hard. He fell to the ground and I gasped. He does not flop. As the referee leaned over him, words of refs from soccer past echoed: are you okay? When the official waved the come-and-get-him signal to the coach, my stomach twisted; he must be hurt. Steven didn't wait for assistance. He stood and walked to the sideline. I sat an eternity away, on a bleacher, listening as my dad, my first and current husbands, my younger son, and two of Steven's three younger siblings at his dad’s house chatted and laughed. I watched as first one coach and then the other stood before Steven, evaluating.
A boy does not want his mom to hover. He does not want her to run hysterically to his side. He does not want an injury to be a big deal. My current husband looked at me, at the sideline where Steven sat, and then back at me. “Do you want me to check on him?” He asked, quietly. My dad and former husband continued talking. I softly shrugged with feigned indifference. He asked again and I nodded just enough.
From behind mirrored shades, I watched his every seemingly slow step. Steven’s coach noticed his approach and moved to provide an update. Steven didn’t turn around and my husband didn’t call his name. Nearly as soon as it started, the conversation ended and Steven stayed on the bench.
My younger son, still wearing his baseball cleats from an earlier practice, ran up the stairs. Steven’s other brother roughhoused with his sister. They weren’t listening to words of caution; I no longer noticed. Steven has a headache and won’t play again today, my husband reported. I absorbed his words and continued to stare. The assistant coach paced, hovered, and then sat next to Steven. His focus inspired my focus and my stomach twisted harder.
A few minutes later, the team manager, another mom, approached to tell us the coach sent a text asking one of us to return to the other sideline. My husband started to stand but I instantly thudded down the bleachers, down the ramp, and around the end of the field. Steven’s headache had worsened; we were to take him home. My boy stood, gingerly collected his bag, and started toward me. Within two steps, he let go. His shoulders heaved, eyes shone, and he murmured words of pain.
I grabbed his backpack and urged him forward. I didn’t hug or hold. I just guided with a hand resting on his lower back. When we walked the final turn of the track, his two brothers and sister anxiously awaited with looks of concern. He folded his nearly six foot tall body down to kneel, opened his wingspan, and invited hugs. He dipped his head onto his brother’s small shoulder while his own shoulders shook. His sister joined her big brothers and I heard my sweet boy whisper his gratitude for their attendance. My younger son hesitated, unsure of his place. Steven opened his right arm wider to include all three siblings in the embrace.
All the while, tears of distress rolled down his cheeks. His nose dripped between ragged inhales. I wondered if he thought about the head injury video required during recent referee training, or perhaps about his battle to earn an A in pre-calculus. He’s practical, my boy. The team manager arrived: you played well; take your time healing. He asked her to reiterate to the team his message from before the opening whistle: every game is a gift.
My boy is 15. He makes his lunch and schedules his orthodontist appointments. He recognizes the fragility of health and life. His old soul lulls me into believing I am ready for the next phase. As I drove home with my still silently sobbing son in the seat by my side, I remembered I’m not. I spoke to my mom on the phone later to provide an update and told her I don’t understand how she let us leave home. Knowing laughter burst forth from the other end of the phone and I heard her silent message clearly: you’ll always worry; love him anyway.
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