Have you ever peered out your window one morning and thought the world got turned on its side while you were sleeping? You see familiar objects. But something’s shifted in the landscape and you’re not sure what. Like living inside a giant snow globe and waking up to find yourself shaken, blinded by a zillion white flakes fluttering in front of your face.
I got just such a jolt—some might call it a paradigm shift—this week after I learned that Walter (Wally) Gretzky had died. My ears perked up and I began listening to and reading tributes for Wally, be they from Tofino to Gander to Fort Simpson. They filled me with melancholy. Don’t get me wrong: I’m no hockey nut. I’ve never even met the guy. But I felt a pang over his passing just the same.
This father of The Great One.
This man who taught his legendary offspring the power of humility.
I felt sorry for Wayne, first, of course. Wayne adored his instrumental dad, his earliest and most devoted coach. But the more I learned about Wally, the more it felt like the collective Gretzky family’s sad loss was everyone’s loss, in a way. And that’s when I began to connect the dots. I began to examine my own sorry history as a soccer parent. It made me realize—with a swift kick to the gut—just how much I’d come up short.
That Wally could have taught me a trick or two, then.
Altruism is a rare and beautiful thing. It brings to mind the repeated remarks about Walter’s ordinariness. His refusal to get swept up in his son’s celebrity, and how that set him apart, not just as a father, but as a human. A person satisfied to steep in his own sanctity. A guy who felt secure enough to stand apart from his son, to leave just enough space for all the glitter to land on Wayne, plus a clean piece of floor to catch whatever slid off his son’s shoes.
The story, as I understand it, went a little like this. Wally was the guy who got up early to clear patches of ice for his son to play, who drilled him to think like a sports genius— always two or three steps ahead of the other players—who played a critical role in his son’s trajectory. But he refused to take any credit for Wayne’s brilliance. Ever. And when it came to the day-to-day career moves, as far as I understand it, Wally was content to let Wayne rise and fall. His job, as is any good parent’s, was to act as a guide. And then—to let the guided one go.
I think back to my own years as a soccer mom, surrounded by a bevy of obsessive moms and dads. The years I spent fretting and hovering over one of my sons—a natural athlete just good enough to make the higher-level teams, but beset by too many injuries and self-doubt to sustain a select spot year-to-year. I think of the ways I personally agonized over my son’s highs and lows on the field, not only because I cared, perhaps; because I cared a little too much.
I wince when I recall making my penultimate mark as a soccer mom. My year as manager for a local “gold team” of 10-year-olds, one that included my son. I spent much of the year losing sleep over his uneven performances, trying to make up for his gaffes with batches of cookies for the kids and party planning to impress the two coaches. I knew, deep down, that whatever I did, I couldn’t make up for my son’s weak passes that day or his long dry spell without a goal. And yet, somehow, I kidded myself that my managerial charms might propel my son’s soccer hopes forward.
Pick me, pick me—my head was saying—even though I needed to step back. Think hard about what I would tell my son should he be the one to get passed over. I couldn’t seem to let go of that initial euphoria, my soaring to the moon and back the day he made that special team.
Omigosh—they picked him! My little darling. Despite my soccer-defective DNA.
My son’s status made me golden without having to don a single pair of soccer boots. The thought I might lose those privileges by association—so enmeshed was I in my son’s fate—felt crushing. Felt like something I couldn’t face.
So righteous was my anger that I seemed to have forgotten my son. Instead I left him in the backseat while I marched out on the practice field, pulled the head coach aside, and bellowed like a sullen sports-child: “It’s not fair! It’s not fair! Why him? How could you do this to us?”
And in that way the universe always dishes up the one plate you can hardly stomach, the worst came true the day I learned—via brusque email—that my son had indeed been cut. I hopped in my car and drove to the soccer field with a face full of hot blood.
“You okay, mom?” my son said to me from the backseat in a small, worried voice.
“Yes, yes. I’m fine, hun. I’m just really mad at your coach,” I said. “We’re driving straight to the field because I intend to tell him that.”
I’d been wronged, I told myself. It wasn’t the fact that the coach had cut my son from the team, I reasoned, but the rude manner in which he conveyed his message. So righteous was my anger that I seemed to have forgotten my son. Instead I left him in the backseat while I marched out on the practice field, pulled the head coach aside, and bellowed like a sullen sports-child: “It’s not fair! It’s not fair! Why him? How could you do this to us?”
The coach stood there with his hands on his hips waiting for my ire to sputter out. “Are you going to break the news to him,” he finally asked me, one eyebrow raised. “Or shall I?”
In the end I agreed to be the one, so I skulked back to my car and shared the news. If I’d been rational, I might have said to my son: “Hey bud, you worked really hard this year. But it sounds like they’ve got the team they want. You being on silver next year—I’ve heard it’s a lot more fun.”
But I did not. Instead I treated the coach’s decision like it was a sham. With my stiff, unyielding body language, I suggested to my son that he’d been robbed. I lost the chance to tell him that the coach’s decision was a kind of gift—the chance to blow it and the chance to rise up again. The chance to put this one small slight in perspective. And now that’s my son’s a young man and no longer playing soccer—I can’t take those words back.
I’m sorry, Wally. I’m sorry, Wayne. I figured out what it means to aspire to greatness just a little too late.
And ever since then, I can’t stop the snowflakes from falling, no matter where I look.
You’re still one awesome Mom! Great tribute to Wally!
Hugs! Mom
Thanks, Mom. I learned all the good stuff from you. 🙂
Even Super Hero’s have an off day.
What I remember from that time was all your efforts on behalf of the whole team, how incredibly busy you were managing a household, full time employment AND a team with a smile on your face. Not to mention some truly impressive snacks.
Walter Gretzky was an impressive man.
Dana Tye Rally is an impressive woman and mom who occasionally has strong words for a coach 😊
Thank you, Sharon. You’re such a great friend. I should never have discarded the cape. 🙂
Right back at you!
You’ve written a perfect tribute to the Great One’s dad. But I believe you’ve also been tremendously hard on yourself. As far back as I can recall, which would include the infamous mano-a-mano confrontation with the coach, your outsized heart deeply cared for and ached over each of life’s disappointments that stood in the boys’ ways. I’m not surprised a cut from the soccer team would have hurt you, but I’m convinced it was more for your son than for the loss of soccer-mom majesty. You may well have been furious for the reasons mentioned, but you bled for your boy. And you were always there. And still are.
My goodness, Irene. You are as supportive and loyal as ever. Thank you. I appreciate you going to bat for me, so to speak. Yes, I am sometimes hard on myself. But it can also be irresistible to go back and try to understand things better in hindsight. I was devoted, yes, but sometimes all that emotion can blind a person, and sports seems to be the classic arena for stoking all those fires. All I can do is brush myself off and hope to do better next time–just like all of those soccer players. 🙂
As usual, your story is full of pathos! I love the way you weave your observations with your self awareness. Your modesty is palpable. !! Keep the flow a comin’!!
Thank you so much, Mary Lou!
It makes me sad that you let this affect you this much so many years later. You are the best Mom, and you always did your best! And guess what…you’re human, and you have and always will make mistakes. I think your son will remember more all those times that you have been there for him, and still are! Is that not more important than making the odd little mistakes? Blow those snowflakes out of your way – unless you close your eyes and let them touch your face softly and peacefully. Time to be kind to yourself!
Micki you are such a kind and loyal friend. Thank you. As a mom, I’m learning that striving for something less than perfection can take a little of the pressure off. But I hear you. Thank you for backing me regardless. 🙂
Someone cheering in your corner no matter where your playing career goes is the memory you hold on to. Mum or any other parent cheering is always a strong memory after most of the actual games are just a blur.
Thank you, Adam–former sports kid, ongoing sports big kid–I appreciate your wizened perspective. I’m glad I never missed a game if I could help it.
Dana, I too remember this time in your life so well. I was along for the parallel ride with my own boys. Isn’t it wonderful as time passes that we can look back and reflect on our inner process? It doesn’t always match what others see though, does it?
I will tell you that the outer DTR was regarded (by me) as the mom who cared so much, the mom who sped up when you really needed to slow down (for your own sake!), the mom who showed up with snacks and rides for everyone.
You took my boy for sleepovers when you could see that I was tired or stressed or just all “single-mommed-out,” despite the fact you had a houseful of boys of your own.
You were the mom that stealthy asked me to make sure Liam had a hat and gloves on when you were away for the weekend and his dad was taking him to soccer. Even when you weren’t there, you were.
Loving our kids is okay. Caring too much is okay. It sure beats the alternative doesn’t it?
Your son will always know that if it’s cold outside, you’ve got extra gloves and hot chocolate on the sidelines. And if life isn’t fair, you’ll first be right there lamenting it with him, and then be encouraging him to move forward in spite of it. xox
Ally, thank you so much for your beautiful words, and for seeing both the inner and the outer DTR. Loved taking your boy for sleepovers. Those were good days. We were the little village raising all the seemingly misunderstood boys in a pod together. I think the village helped raise me as well. 🙂