the ball is your friend

my son plays soccer & i worry.
out on the pitch, he doesn't embarrass himself & i worry.
from his team, he's one of the better players,
nonetheless you still find me on the sidelines, pacing back & forth,
biting my tongue, my nails.
i always do, it's my job. it's what i'm good at (a shameful consolation).
he's a better player than i would have ever been.
he runs like the wind & he's generous, courageous.
a good touch, a good pass, in his eyes, is as good as a goal.
& i didn't teach him that. neat stuff coming from an eight year old.
he's a better human being than i was, than in my less awkward moments i have been.
still, anxiety, worrying gets to me. which tells me
i've undeveloped coping mechanisms, i should be on meds,
i'm a poor parent.
no secret, though, that despite my tough or weird love (weird science)
my son's turning out to be better than me, & i'm relieved—
i've enough remorse on my plate.
with an attitude of the ball is your friend, he keeps brushing off my inadequacies
the way he brushes off defenders, defeats—
not a bad soccer/life skill to develop, to promote.
aside from heartburn, frustration, & getting me into trouble with the coach,
joy is something he's been providing me with
ever since he picked up a soccer ball, & i need to let him know that,
the joy part;
he already knows the nagging part too well.


c. a. campos, 2013