This is my post.
Has been for years.
I’ve held this spot sacred, watching you play for so long.
Yet as you grow older, I find myself mourning the day I‘ll finally have to give it up.
I’ve worn a path here, pacing back and forth with worry.
I’ve packed the earth here, jumping up and down with excitement.
I’ve found friends here, locking arms so tight that they’ve become bonded like family.
I’ve made room in my heart for teammates here, cheering as if they were my own children.
I’ve learned to respect, to love, and to offer grace here, for everyone on the other side of the fence.
And the thought of leaving here . . . it’s sending a strike straight through my heart.
But here in this spot, I’ve also learned it’s not about me.
From the moment I signed you up, I’ve had to start learning to let you go.
Because this game, it belongs to you.
Where years ago, my voice may have been the loudest here on the sidelines, now yours is the one that can be heard ringing across the field.
Where I once was the one offering encouragement, you’re now the one patting backs and raising spirits.
Where I believed I knew your greatest strengths, you’re now flexing your talents where you know they’ll shine.
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Where you once only looked to me for direction, you’re now focused solely on coaches, teammates, and officials.
And as much as I sit here wallowing in the self-pity of who I’ll be without this game . . . I know it’s more about who you have become because of it.
Being the mother of an athlete means holding this post empathically and letting go humbly.
It’s about learning to be a good sport.
And it’s about understanding and respecting your place. Your position. Your role. And mine.
It’s about loving the game, regardless of if you advance to the next round.
Not always easy. But it’s finally starting to sink in.
I may not be ready to leave this post where I’ve watched over you for so long.
I may not be ready for this next season of life.
But because of this game.
I know you are.