The last two years have been historic at my school. Now in its tenth year, our strongest athletic program is the girls' soccer team. Last year, they came in second in state; this year, third. I'm sure there's a lot of desire for those girls to take first next year, and I'm confident they can do that. Their coach and my good friend is currently in withdrawals from the end of the season--though his boys' soccer team starts up in a few weeks, so the mood won't last long. He's expressed on social media some of his feelings, and I get the impression that he's in that bittersweet cusp of appreciating what happened, wishing it could continue, and sadness that it's over. I could be wrong, but I daresay that's where he is.
The last year has put me in a similar mood. As I mentioned before, I really fell in love with quidditch when I happened upon in it in January of 2012. I didn't know it would change me so much, and I didn't know that I would, after retiring, have a strange sense of regret mingled with a sense of having done the right thing.
I dreamed about quidditch last night, trying to coach some students in a frost-covered field while people, curious, watched what was going on. We never got into playing the game--that is the way of dreams--but it reminded me as I woke up this Saturday morning that I would be abandoning my family to go run around a park for two hours, broom between my legs, trying to pretend this was something I could keep doing. When I played quidditch, I didn't feel sad. I could feel my preoccupations and worries slough off, falling away as I surrounded myself with friends and kept myself busy with improving the sport. This still happens when I'm coaching the students--my dark days usually brighten when on the pitch--but it's different being on the sidelines.
In many ways, we keep quidditch at my school only for me. Yes, the students come and play (obviously), but so few do that, were I to cancel the sport--for whatever reason--it would drastically affect fewer than twenty people. So, while I would want to keep going for those kids who like it, it's very much a selfish thing. It's my only connection to the sport I love.
This leads to worries about vicarious living. I usually save those for the video games and books I write, and I have to confess a high degree of self-indulgence. There's something to be said about mentoring, training, teaching, and helping that I find really enjoyable, but, again, it's about what I find enjoyable. I only kind of do it for the kids...and kind of do it for myself.
It's complicated. Few things in my life have left me as conflicted as quidditch. I have some middling talent in it--I'm a third-stringer (at best), for sure, but I'm a committed one. I enjoy it immensely. I have sacrificed a lot of time and money to pursue it as far as I have. And I miss that ball deeply enough to drive me to distraction.
Yet I know I shouldn't be out of town with my friends, playing in a tournament. I should be at home, typing my daily essay and listening to my kids shriek downstairs so that my wife can support her sister who needs help today. Much like my friend, who is looking at the end of the season from a position of vicarious work--coaching is different than playing, after all--there's a gap between what has gone before and the desire to return to it.
I guess what I'm saying is, I know I'm doing the right thing--but it makes me wonder why I'm doing the right thing if it hurts so much.
The last year has put me in a similar mood. As I mentioned before, I really fell in love with quidditch when I happened upon in it in January of 2012. I didn't know it would change me so much, and I didn't know that I would, after retiring, have a strange sense of regret mingled with a sense of having done the right thing.
I dreamed about quidditch last night, trying to coach some students in a frost-covered field while people, curious, watched what was going on. We never got into playing the game--that is the way of dreams--but it reminded me as I woke up this Saturday morning that I would be abandoning my family to go run around a park for two hours, broom between my legs, trying to pretend this was something I could keep doing. When I played quidditch, I didn't feel sad. I could feel my preoccupations and worries slough off, falling away as I surrounded myself with friends and kept myself busy with improving the sport. This still happens when I'm coaching the students--my dark days usually brighten when on the pitch--but it's different being on the sidelines.
In many ways, we keep quidditch at my school only for me. Yes, the students come and play (obviously), but so few do that, were I to cancel the sport--for whatever reason--it would drastically affect fewer than twenty people. So, while I would want to keep going for those kids who like it, it's very much a selfish thing. It's my only connection to the sport I love.
This leads to worries about vicarious living. I usually save those for the video games and books I write, and I have to confess a high degree of self-indulgence. There's something to be said about mentoring, training, teaching, and helping that I find really enjoyable, but, again, it's about what I find enjoyable. I only kind of do it for the kids...and kind of do it for myself.
It's complicated. Few things in my life have left me as conflicted as quidditch. I have some middling talent in it--I'm a third-stringer (at best), for sure, but I'm a committed one. I enjoy it immensely. I have sacrificed a lot of time and money to pursue it as far as I have. And I miss that ball deeply enough to drive me to distraction.
Yet I know I shouldn't be out of town with my friends, playing in a tournament. I should be at home, typing my daily essay and listening to my kids shriek downstairs so that my wife can support her sister who needs help today. Much like my friend, who is looking at the end of the season from a position of vicarious work--coaching is different than playing, after all--there's a gap between what has gone before and the desire to return to it.
I guess what I'm saying is, I know I'm doing the right thing--but it makes me wonder why I'm doing the right thing if it hurts so much.
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