When your kid grows into a passion. You, as a parent, grow into that same passion.
How many hours spent driving you to practice, sitting through practice, sitting through games, sometimes two or more in one evening? How many hours spent training for that one special three-pointer we knew someday you would make? How many hours spent bonding with your teammates, your best of friends, your classmates, your “boys?” How many hours spent dreaming of one day—making the team in grade school, high school, and (dare I say it?) college?
How many hours?
And were they all worth it? Absolutely. Were they all easy? Not a chance.
Did you cry tears of defeat? More than once. Did your downtrodden little boy heart break your mommy and daddy’s hearts, anxiously hawklike watching every single move from the hard, wooden bleachers? Many times.
You are a winner. Not because you sink the most baskets. Not because you are every game’s most valuable player. Not because you came back after a devastating pinkie injury.
You are a winner because you believe in your team. You look out for your teammates. You pass, you shoot, you score, you miss, you try and try and try again.
How many hours spent on this one hobby that you started nearly seven years ago? I did not grow into my chosen athleticism until I was years older than you.
You are strong. You are brave. You are a team player. You are my son.
You love this game. I love this game.
You will always be a winner in the private cheering section of my heart.
How many hours given to this part of your special life? Countless hours. But never enough. I will always hunger for more—seeing you on that court, thirsty for victory, hungry for a win. Cheering on your teammates. Indulging in their victorious shots, nearly as much as your own. Those hours are etched in stone in my mother’s memory book of your precious youth.
How many hours?
It will never be too much.
It will never be enough.