Shaka Bra--Marcia

This week Daniel goes off to “Hoop Camp”. He is not nervous about meeting the teeming horde of other little boys. He’s not nervous about whether or not he’ll be good enough. He just is.

He steps out onto the gym floor with all these mini strangers, picks up a ball and starts shooting, pretty soon he’s in a pod and they are talking and shooting. Familiar faces start to emerge. Brady from football camp, Charlie from Hoover, Ryan from Tennis.

“Hey, How’s it going!” Swoosh.

“I know you! Didn’t you play for the Mets?” Swoosh.

“Do you think Kyle Singler’s going to be here this year?” Swoosh.

Daniel doesn’t think too much, try too hard, or show off. Golf, tennis, basketball, football, baseball, ping-pong. They all come easy. He just flows.

James is on a T-Ball team this summer. His first practice was yesterday. He’s got on all the regalia. White pants, cleats, his brother’s River Dogs hat, and a new glove. He can’t wait. James has been waiting a long time to have his day in the sun. He’s sat on Daniel’s sidelines for the last five years. He’s ready to let it rip.

He gets up to bat, scrunches up his face and swings with all his might. It’s all rubber. The dull thwack of the bat hitting the “T” instead of the ball. He digs in again. Scrunches up again—Thwack. This goes on maybe four or five times. Each time he puts every ounce of his soul in it. Eventually he does a dribbler and takes off—Head down, arms flying, chubby legs churning. He rounds third base to come home and his face is Def Con 3. Beet red, eyes blazing. Tagging home plate he’s the Sultan of Swat. His swagger increases ten-fold as he heads back to his position in the field.

Now this is practice. Every kid runs all the bases. You can’t get tagged out. For James it’s the World Series. He’s a new man. A baseball player.

When I sit in front of my manuscript, my face scrunches up, my shoulders tighten, and my brain clenches its fist. I will muscle this book into shape. I will Will it into shape. So instead of staying loose and swooshing, I’m scrunching and dribbling. Both have value. One way is just a heck of a lot more graceful with greater end results.

James has my intensity, my desire to win, my ferocity. I hope I also did not pass on my habit of thinking too hard, trying too hard, and showing off. It doesn’t work in sports and it doesn’t work in writing. Hang loose, Jamesie.

Today I want to emulate both of my sons as I approach the page. I want the effortless grace of my eldest and the passion of my youngest.