The anecdote
I'm driving home with my eldest son after footy training. I have been coaching his team for around six years, and he loves the game. On many occasions, he has told me that he would love to be a professional footballer. The trouble is, his body is not built for it. Or perhaps not yet built for it. He is short for his age, and the power and speed needed for the brand of football played here is not something that sits within his current capability.
But still, he has worked hard. He has trained his ability to run. He has gone to the gym to build what muscle he can. He has developed his skills with the ball. And he has worked to build his game smarts.
The skills and the smarts are the things that come most naturally to him. He knows where to run to and always sets up his teammates because of the care he has when the ball comes his way.
One of the things I admire about him the most is that, despite his relative size, he plays with courage, putting himself in situations where he is contesting with much larger bodies, while still keeping himself safe.
Another thing that I admire about him was epitomised in what he said on our way home from footy training that night. He is amazingly aware of himself and his context, and he is honest about what he is aware of.
We had made the finals for the first time, and training had been abuzz. We had great players in our team, and the boys were gelling at the right time of the season.
There is a moment of silence in the car before my son reflects by saying, 'Dad, I think it is going to be very hard for me to be a professional footballer. I am an above-average player in a fourth-division team'. We both silently weighed the significance of what he had just said.
He was right, of course; it was going to be very difficult for him to make it. It is very difficult for anyone to make it. Of all the kids playing football right now across the country, less than 0.1% of them will get an opportunity to play at the elite level.
I asked him how he felt about that. He said he felt sad, but that it was okay. That he realised there were other things he was good at and could aim for.
In that moment I felt a flood of love for him. I shared the pain of his realisation that a dream he had held was not likely to come to pass. I admired his self-awareness, his honesty, and his courage to share it out loud. It was a moment of connection between us. When the brutal realities of life crack our naive expectations, and through the resultant crumbling create something beautiful.
The insight
I can see that I have put my own expectations on my son and through osmosis planted my own unfulfilled dreams within him. And I can see how wonderful it is that he has been able to look at the reality of his body and his environment to see how unrealistic it is, and perhaps something he did not really want anyway.
The consequences
As this only happened a few weeks ago, I expect the realisations from this story to play out over the next few years. In the short term, I feel even closer to my son. I can see that he is starting to explore other things he is curious about, and as a result the world is opening up to him in new ways.
The consequences for me are that I am even more willing to let go of my own dreams, understanding at a new level that dogged adherence to them can be a self-imposed tyranny. And of course, to be even more aware of the expectations I put on my boys; to evolve my role to be one of a guide helping them discover what is true about themselves, and how this might play into their world.
The mindful wrap-up
I wonder if honesty is the most important trait in a human. If one sought to be honest about the experience of being here as their most important aim, could a life be well lived around that alone? It would beget a focus on ever-expanding awareness of one's body, one's mind, one's history, and one's context. And then a humble sharing of this expanding awareness in a reflexive, open exploration with others.