My oldest boy will be eight in December. He loves sports and shows a natural talent at many of them. I will not say he is any type of superstar. I will say that he is far more advanced than I ever was at his age.
When I was a boy, I always wanted to play quarterback. My big problem was that I lacked the physical skills. I could throw decently, but not nearly as well as the other boys. My son, on the other hand, can throw it much farther and more consistently than any of the other boys on his flag football team. One of the coaches noticed it in the practice before his second game. They immediately set to work in practice (even though he had never played quarterback before) and had him start the game. He ended up completing one long pass in the game and the team went on to win, 19-0.
I am obviously happy that he is doing well. I am even more pleased that he seems to be having a lot of fun. At the same time, I have these strange wistful feelings. I wish I could share with him how much I had wished to be doing the same things he gets to do now. I just don't want to burden him with the emotional baggage of a middle-aged man. He should enjoy his triumphs on his own with the pure joy that is childhood.
I am looking forward to watching his talents develop over the years. Whatever happens, I am sure the journey will be memorable.
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