I’m blessed to live in a part of the country where a high school kid can still play three sports a year. My big-city friends practically have to declare their kids’ sport-of-choice during the ultrasound, and then spend the next fourteen years buying a spot on the club team until high school try-outs roll around; but even then, it’s a crap shoot. In fact, the Olympic trials might hold more hope for Junior.
The guy I’m married to played eight-man football in Condon, Oregon. Which, I think, also means his basketball team had only three men and the baseball team he pitched for would, logically-speaking, have had about six in the dug-out. To this day, our kids get a kick out of listening to his three-sport Badge of Honor, otherwise known as his rotator cuff, as it clicks and grinds into action every morning. And, although I’m a died-in-the-wool mama bear who wishes our hard-working athletes could get a vacation between seasons, I’m proud of their dedication and ability to switch gears mid-stride; a new coach, the long drive to town for fresh gear, a skeletal tune-up with Dr. Slater, a new mouth guard, collect some more cans and bottles, new tires for Mom’s car, a nod to the Les Schwab pit crew and THEY’RE OFF!
And that’s just the season opener! Ask any elite athlete and they’ll tell you it’s the behind-the-scenes effort that makes them a champion. Take the grandparents for instance. By now, they too have been trained to write down all dates, locations and times in pencil, because they’ve learned the hard way that Athletic Directors have a game schedule roulette wheel in their office; and that sucker never stops spinning. But if it does, the Pony Express is dispatched to the coaches and players. Then a telegraph is sent to parent one and parent two, stepparent three and four and so on. Throw travel time into the mix and it’s a wonder Grandma and Grandpa make it at all. But, make it, they will!
Case in point: The phenomenon also known as, Grandma Hulick. If you’ve been to a Crook County football game in the last couple of years you’ve likely experienced Grandma Hulick. You might not have known it at the time. In fact, you might have thought you’d wandered into a NASCAR stadium by mistake. Her whoops, hollers and ear-piercing whistles might make the newbies nervous but, those of us who’ve seen her love in action know that this is just her warm up act, folks. I’ve seen that woman jump the fence around the Summit High School track to help an injured player on the sidelines. And, being that it was Summit, there were probably three fences and an armed guard! No Mother in her right mind would venture toward the bench if she ever wanted her kid to speak to her again but, in a pinch, we all know that we can get important information to (and about) our precious babies via Grandma H. And when the final whistle blows there she is again with twenty dozen cookies as our players board the bus or head to the locker room. They get a cookie in each hand and one in the mouth, along with a high five and an “Atta-boy!”
Although I’m tempted to petition the I.O.C. for a grandparent gold medal on her behalf, I’m fairly certain that her practice of never letting anyone leave her presence without feeling loved in turn fills her with a happiness that is all the present she will ever need. Now, if I could just figure out a way to sneak her into my son’s golf tournaments.
