Sitting on Sunday

I drove home in a bad mood. I watched the game with feigned enthusiasm. I smiled the best I could during the ceremony but I know it wasn’t hidden.

All I asked for was for you to get a shot. Maybe it is what it is. Maybe you have been given your shot and you just don’t have what it takes on this team. Maybe I’m just hard-headed in thinking that you’re still better than what they give you credit for.

In my dad-tinted glasses, you shouldn’t have to sit on Sunday. In a championship game; on a team you’ve given your all to for 3 years; in a manner where you’ve accepted every role they’ve given you — never complaining — and almost always smiling. You shouldn’t be sitting on Sunday.

— —

Your family came to support you. They drove hours, coming from both the south and the north. They wanted to cheer on their CoCo. There was disappointment on their faces but they hid it better than me.

Your mom texted me on Saturday. It was something along the lines of, “here we go again.” I brushed back thinking that we could wait and see what happened on Sunday when it mattered. She was right. When it mattered, you weren’t considered.

Your buddy came. A former teammate. He sat in your exact same seat last Spring and I felt for his family as I watched it happen back then. I hurt for them knowing how bad they wanted him to see the field — and for him, knowing how much worse he wanted it. They made the right decision to walk. I tried to encourage them with words when they made the choice even as much as I hated to see them go. His dad came and stood by me during the game yesterday, he understood; I felt it in his presence, he didn’t have to say anything. You shouldn’t have to sit on Sunday.

And with all of that, you smiled ear-to-ear. You’re the bigger man than me. You took it in stride, only commenting that, “you wish you would have gotten a shot because you had saved up every bit of energy you had left for that game.” And even then, it wasn’t a complaint, just an observation on your part and a glimpse into the hope that you’ll get a shot the next time.

— —

It’s Monday morning and you’re off on a great Spring Break adventure. You’re going to play and fish and swim and ride and read and laugh and dance and sing and not sweat one bit of this. I’m at my desk trying to make sense of it all. I want to wallow in self-pity. I want my buddies to call and say, “hey, we noticed it too, he shouldn’t have to sit on Sunday,” but I doubt it happens. They either don’t have the words or it’s possible they see the things I don’t see.

Sitting doesn’t make you a better player but it might be making me a better person by reminding me of what’s important. You know what matters in life and you take every bit of this in stride. Your smile; the enthusiasm and infectious spirit that inhabits you; the fact that you worry very little about what others think of you; and you being fully aware that this life is only temporary — you’ve got this all in perspective. I’m watching and learning.

You shouldn’t have to sit on Sunday. But right now you are. You are great and you’re going to do great things in this life. Almost all of them will never take place on a field. I’m thankful you’ve got a lifetime of Sundays ahead and for the most part you won’t be sitting on them.

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