Cheering anyway: A parent’s take on unconditional support

Part of being a parent is supporting your kids. Unconditionally.

That means all the time. That means when they’re doing things you either a) don’t understand or b) otherwise would have no chance of caring about were your kid not involved.

The heir is involved with two of these activities these days. One was thrust upon him by school district requirements, the other by peer pressure.

As he began middle school this summer, all the kids had to take up an instrument or join the choir.

He wanted to play drums. Unlike most parents, I was cool with that. I played drums. I love drums. I saw a path to having a drum kit in the house for the first time since I sold mine 25 years ago.

He wasn’t allowed to play drums. The school won’t let him.

Seems everyone wants to play them, so in order to be a drummer in the middle school band, one must win some sort of lottery.

So he had to choose otherwise. I figured this had to mean choir, since the kid possesses a wonderful voice (not just in my opinion; he certainly does not sound like me).

Naturally, then, he picked … the viola.

My experience with the viola is less than zero. And that’s after growing up next door to Lachlan McBane, a principal violist in the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra who has played multiple times with the Cleveland Orchestra (the equivalent of me getting to write a guest column with the Boston Globe), toured with Amy Grant and appeared on multiple Bruce Springsteen albums.

None of that rubbed off on a semi-talented drummer. Or his son.

But it’s still something I get far more than … wrestling.

For comparison’s sake, my son is in his fifth season of wrestling and his fourth month of viola. He’s already better at viola. He squeaks his way through the hits like “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” and “Stairway to Heaven” (OK, probably not that), plucking and bowing his strings like a seasoned expert.

On the wrestling mat? Well, he’s won a few more matches than I did. I never wrestled.

He goes to practices faithfully, works harder than anyone despite little payoff, and truly enjoys himself. Which I enjoy.

Everything else about it? Not so much.

I watch as other parents starve their kids to make sure they’re eligible while mine is stuck in a higher weight class in which he’s always the smallest (in pounds and stature) in a match, sometimes by far.

And I ask the question to myself — one I’m sure I would still ask if he were winning every match and every tournament — what, exactly, is the appeal here?

Wrestling, as the T-shirt slogan says — and there is no sport with more T-shirt slogans — “is a way of life.” Just not my life.

It’s also a bit cult-like. Too much for my taste, for sure.

So why sign him up? Enter peer pressure.

And rest assured, not a single one of his peers pressured him. It was his mom and all her peers.

“He’s gotta wrestle,” they said, over and over.

No, he doesn’t gotta, I silently replied, knowing my answer wouldn’t matter.

So here we are. His fifth and — prayin’ ta’ God — hopefully final wrestling season. I will support him unconditionally — including if he — again, prayin’ ta’ God — decides to quit at any point.

He’s going to stick with it, though. It’s how he’s wired. He’s too much of a thinker and not enough of an athlete to be very good at it, but his coaches love him and the examples he sets for teammates: never giving up, being gritty and hard-working and even a leader in the way he carries himself at practice.

Me? I just look forward to the next midweek, mid-December baseball practice.

Another form of insanity altogether.

And I support it.

Unconditionally.