Inspiration

Nothing has been inspiring me to write lately. I mean, there have been some moments, mostly funny ones, that I knew I should write down, but just as soon as they happened, I would forget them. Like that one time? In the computer lab? Or that one time? In the library? Then you can fill in the blanks with a smiling face looking up at me and arms hugging me, or a page colored with crayolas and scribbled with I Love You, with all those letters in different shapes and going in every direction.

I've been enjoying getting to know the kids better as the year has gone on. I know about 99% of their names, which is quite a feat with 15 classes! But you get a family with siblings named Jayden, Joey, and Jayci, and any name that starts with a J could come out at any moment when you're trying to call on them.

Something Stein and I saw tonight has sparked some inspiration, some thinking. We saw Pond Hockey, which is a documentary about the Pond Hockey Championship tournament which took place in Minneapolis (go figure). While it sounds like it would be pretty boring, the gist of the movie dealt with kids, specifically those who have grown up playing hockey on frozen lakes, ponds, rivers, or flooded backyards. The old-timers interviewed for the movie kept repeating the same sentiments over and over. That not enough kids play outside anymore, not enough play the bare-bones, rarely adult-supervised game that builds character and fundamental skills.

I thought about that. And not having played hockey as a kid, I thought about what I could relate to. I remembered the hours I spent in the backyard, throwing a basketball onto the slanted roof of the garage and waiting for it to come down, jumping up and grabbing it, imagining I was fending off players from another team. Or the hundreds of tennis balls we would whack against our neighbors brick garage, perfecting our John McEnroe swings. Or bumping a soccer ball (we didn't have a volleyball) against the side of the house, trying to hit that one discolored brick which was my target.

It's those times that I remember the sky (or roof) was the limit, that I dreamed of being on an Olympic team someday. I was unsupervised, could try out new moves without being laughed at, and had the ball all to myself. This wasn't part of an organized practice, and these weren't monotonous drills. My imagination ran wild. It was my time.