It’s World Cup time. South Africa tied Mexico yesterday – no small feat. Meanwhile, the NBA Championship just finished Game 4 of 7. Los Angeles Lakers vs. the Boston Celtics. Two storied teams from large cities on opposite sides of the country.
And all this just reminds me of my son. Equivalently, I cannot hear the word ballet, or even see a tall, flexible young woman teach yoga, without thinking of my daughter.
I’m not sad. Although I miss my children, it’s not a constant feeling. But once kids get all up in your rib cage, or you bring them home from weeks spent with a birth mother, waiting, you’re kind of done for.
Not everybody needs to have kids. Not everyone ought to have kids. But if you do, and one of them is a soccer player, and you possess, therefore, 11 photos of little boys lined up in uniforms of various colors, uncountable gold male figures in various soccer poses, and a memory of a little guy, lying in bed, working out the World Cup bracket in his head, well, you just aren’t going to cheer unfettered ever again.
And you might have to walk down the hall and see if said World Cup bracket is still in existence, and you might find the old, torn newspaper clipping hanging on a wall behind a photo collage, and you might then have a moment. The kids become a layer of significance under almost everything.
Which is fine, really. Go South Africa. Go Bafana Bafana. Go USA. Go Lakers.