In The Middle

I didn't see this coming -- and oftentimes that's when things are best.

Every year on the first day of school, I struggle to deal with the fact that my oldest son is getting older.

I love him so much. We do everything together. I just never want that to end.

In the past 11 years, I've realized that it wasn't anything to worry about. He might have depended on me less, but he hasn't grown away from me -- at least not yet.

Sure, he doesn't go and do the things that I can only do if I have a kid with me. It usually just results in, "That's a bummer."

I wouldn't necessarily change my pattern of lamentations; they gave me real emotional moments that as I get older become less and less ... new. They were the kind that are marked with snapshots in my mind, images of him strolling away with his Darth Vader bookbag into kindergarten, music that brings me to that blend of melancholy and (would you call it?) pride.

The feeling of helplessness in the relentless march of time was always softened by the fact that the boys go to school with their mom, where she teaches. They were always in physical reach of one of their parents. And it helps that my younger son is always three years younger, though unfortunately for him he has to find a way to do something new that we've never seen.

---

So, I would expect that when Asa started middle school this week, I would be lamenting once again.

However, I've just felt this immense happiness.

There's still that part of me that wants to have him back to when my back problems forced me to lay on the floor for three days while he stood over me -- about 1 year old so so -- in a his light-blue onesie pajamas.

(I cared for him from his perspective - actually from a lower perspective as he towered over me, the drool dripping down from his overbite smile. He looked so tall, like a farcical giant-monster action movie).

My middle school years were very difficult. I went to three middle schools. I never made friends. I thought I was a loser, baby -- and when you do that, you kind of become one.

Asa couldn't sleep the night before. And he does this thing where he coughs violently when he's nervous (the worst was during his first flight, to Disney World). The cough never really surfaced as I dropped him off on his first day.

Only one of a number of surprises, which seem so large to me, though probably so banal to others (yeah, this one's more for me).

---

Last fall, Asa left a baseball team that he loved.

It wasn't working out from my perspective. The team wasn't very good, but I also thought that the kids he was surrounded by didn't work hard enough, didn't care as much as he did, and they didn't have much in common with him.

However, he loved his coach -- a friend of mine and one of the few men in this world who acts the part by putting children first, oftentimes to the detriment of his chances for winning and a reputation among the insecure coaches who define themselves through the success of their players.

To say Asa left the team is to say that I made him leave the team.

We went to another team where a group of guys were going to take it more seriously. It was with kids he had played recreation ball with for 5+ years, they were the All-Star team last year.

It seemed to be a good decision at the time -- and not the worst one.

But those guys lost their way, and my son could sense it from the beginning.

He never had the same love for them that he did for his previous coach.

This guy claimed Asa as his player even after he left -- giving him advice, rooting for him to succeed while simultaneously hoping he wouldn't pitch against him.

And I let him claim him - just not for his team.

Children's sports can be so complicated.

---

Now, Asa plays for yet another team -- except this time, I allowed him to pick.

Last month, I got a text at the beach from a coach I'd never met, and Asa got picked up as a guest player for a team called the Mustangs during an AAU nationals tournament.

We showed up straight from the beach 4 1/2 hours away. His grandparents brought his clothes to the ball park. He had about 10 minutes before they put him on the mound and told him go at it.

We won 5-1 and eventually won a division in the tournament (I never knew they gave out championship rings to children).

Asa immediately fell in love with the team.

They're from a rural area about 25 minutes south of Greenville.

Their country accents and demeanor remind him of his family back in small-town Winnsboro. He said they mostly remind him of his great-Grandma, and that's always a good thing.

The coaches believed him. And they weren't corporate.

Instead of chastising him for it, they liked his "fire" when he ran off the mound before the umpire called a third strike. There's a fine line there, but maybe he mirrors me when I err on the side of passion, at least for children.

He tried out, won a spot and now is excited to play with a new group of kids he has no history with.

It's a cliche that sports can be a metaphor for life. In this case, it's not a metaphor but more of another manifestation.

There's a running theme here, and I'm learning a new lesson -- kind of the easy way, this time.

---

Because Asa went to school with his mom, he didn't go to school with the children in his neighborhood (in fact an elementary school is so close to our house that in the winter when there's an ice storm we walk over to the hill above the playgrounds and sled).

This made him a bit of a novelty. His connection with his friends was connected solely to their exploits in the neighborhood. I suppose I'll never exactly what that means socially.

Likewise, he started tee ball at age 5 in a league across town.

I missed the sign-up for the closer league -- so for five years he played over in Mauldin with, again, a group of kids he neither went to school with nor who lived near him.

They were the children he played baseball with when they left rec ball for these more-serious tournament teams. They were the social components for his sports exploits.

When the time came to consider middle school, we didn't want him to go to school in our zone. There's just a little less ... curiousity ... in Hillcrest.

So we decided we'd asked for special permission to go to Mauldin schools (the zone my wife grew up in).

This would mean a number of things.

For the first time, I would be his sole means of transportation to school (you can't take a school bus for a school outside your zone).

He'd be going to school with no children he went to elementary school with. Nor would he go to school with children from his neighborhood. He would know about 10 people, all who know him through sports.

Not the worst thing ... but what would it mean?

---

As I drove him to middle school, I felt a peace about me.

I knew we made the right decision on school choice. We learned that when we experienced the culture at orientation.

But how would he adjust? There's a part of me, I think, that knew he was used to being different in the social fabric of things. Not weird, but maybe just novel.

By chance, we ended up in the school car line with one of his best baseball friends -- who's also joining him on the new team he picked and who happens to be a 7th grader almost as big as me. It couldn't hurt to walk into a new school with a guy like that.

I watched them walk in together. I took a mental snapshot that I will never forget.

I waited impatiently for that afternoon, the verdict.

Who would he end up having classes with? Would he feel like he fit in? Would he like school?

When he called, I heard the words I wanted to hear, "I love school."

His best friend from his first baseball team -- the one I guided him into leaving -- had all but two classes with him. They saved spots for each other, breathlessly told their parents of the wonderful news as soon as they could.

He had missed that kid. That kid was a reason he didn't want to leave.

He also made a new friend -- one who doesn't play baseball.

Asa practiced at home on his combination lock for hours. He timed himself. He wanted to be the kid who knew how to unlock his locker. The teachers love him too -- during the first days of middle school, they spend little time teaching subjects other than how to open your locker.

The third day, on Friday, I decided to leave work early and pick him up from school.

It didn't take long, but he asked me if I was taking him to the back-to-school dance later.

I didn't even know they did those anymore. I certainly didn't think Asa would want to go, at least not that soon.

When I drove him back to school for the event, I gave him my Droid phone. I told him he could use it for a leg up to look cool. I figure he could use any help I could give him.

"Hold on, baby, I'll just friend you on Facebook now."

He later told me an 8th grader got arrested for spiking her Monster energy drink with alcohol.

For all my past worrying, I wasn't fazed. I just shrugged my shoulders -- "Well, make sure you don't do that."

He went to his first practice this weekend for his new team, 25 minutes away in a place that he had to ask me whether it was north or south of his hometown.

I grilled him with questions before I allowed him to make the decision to join that team.

He answered the right ones.

What about your friends you've played with for 5 years?

"Daddy, I want to try something new."

I wasn't sure, but I felt like it was time to let him choose.

Now, he goes to school with his old baseball friends but plays the sport with a whole new group of kids he's only met for the latter part of a tournament a month ago.

It's three separate cultures he gets to experience -- neighborhood, school, sports. All different sets of children who don't know the other groups.

I've always felt this to be true, from the moment I knew I would become a parent.

You have a certain amount of time that they are yours and yours only.

You have your shot to mold them into the adult they will be.

And it's a one-shot deal. You can't go back.

I've not made these decisions knowing what will happen. I've tried to do what I thought was right this whole time. I certainly failed in some respects, mostly when I try to control events before they have had a chance to manifest themselves.

And there's still teenage years to come.

But I have to say, right now, I think he's going to make it by OK.