Column: One play at a time

These are the times I sometimes dreaded and other times couldn’t wait for. You know they’re coming, and you try to hold them off as long as possible while embracing them at the same time.

We have reached the stage of preteen-dom — the intersection of boyhood and manhood. One day they’re your babies, the next day … is that a whisker?

It’s not. Not yet.

Whiskers, though, get closer every day, while things like diapers, strollers and highchairs have long disappeared. What we as parents wouldn’t do for one more meal in the highchair, one more walk behind a stroller, one more dia... OK, maybe not that.

As time continues its brisk march, we as parents keep trying to soak it all in while missing as little as possible. The young ones become not so young, and more of it starts taking place out of our sight.

We keep being proud, though. Pride rages.

Proud parents of the heir, we recently had one of those moments when the young man, after nearly five years of playing football, got to carry the ball in a game. He’d never even carried it in practice.

He looked good — two carries, about 10 yards. Then it was back to the line.

This isn’t about stats or glory, though. It’s about perseverance.

My son is an average football player — at best. He’s worked very hard to get to average. He could have quit long before he reached that level, but the thought never crossed his mind.

I beamed a bit watching him run off tackle at the end of another blowout victory by his Highland Youth Football Varsity Green squad, an unbeaten juggernaut heading this weekend to the league semifinals.

The beaming had nothing to do with a couple of running plays but with half a decade of sweating, grunting and overcoming developmental delays, slow feet and small stature.

He never let any of that get him down. In his first year, as a second grader, he was the smallest and slowest player on the team — the latter by far — and maybe in the entire league. His little legs just couldn’t do what the other kids’ could.

He never complained, though he did ask a few questions. In-utero malnutrition was the simple cause. There’s far more to it, but explaining that to a then-7-year-old was a bit fruitless.

He’s now bigger than a few of his teammates and faster than a few more. Those trends have been steady.

He never sleepwalks through a rep in the middle of practice and never half-asses a sprint at the end. He has a work ethic that I am in awe of and wish I’d had. He got it from my mom — and his.

Football provides a lot of lessons. For me, it, along with every report card, offers a glimpse into the future. It’s comforting to know he has this innate trait, which will allow him to succeed at just about anything and not get his head down if success isn’t immediate.

I’m very proud, to say the least, of his modest athletic exploits. He sets a great example — for me.

I’m proud of how hard he tries, how he sticks with things and wants to get better.

Watching him run the ball a couple of times in a mostly meaningless youth football game, I was so proud of the little 7-year-old boy who nearly six years ago came home from first grade with a sign-up sheet and declared, “I’m going to play football.”

Already then, the highchairs and strollers and diapers were long gone. That tiny little first grader is long gone with them — now a strong and solid middle schooler, still playing football but also getting nominated for Hope Squad by his peers, being chosen for the Middle School Leadership Team (presumably by faculty), and named Social Studies Student of the Month, all within the first few weeks of school.

Our refrigerator magnet supply is running low. Our pride, however, is not.

And it never will be.