Teaching My Son to Hit And Be Hit

As my nine year old "Dude" and I sat on our front porch, we had a most interesting conversation. He was re-hashing what new manly revelation he had discovered this past weekend.

“A good hit is all in your upper body, and the other guy’s lower body.

But if you’re blocking… you just stand em’ up, and then you knock em’ down.

But usually it doesn’t work.”

                  Dude… age 9

And there you have the most important thing I think my kid has learned since school has started...the art of hitting.

Ya see ‘’Dude” is playing tackle football this fall,

(Okay, I CAN hear that collective sigh of disapproval from y’all, now.)  And I admit, there are tender moments when, if I think about it too much, I wonder what I’m thinking too.

But alas here we are in the midst of Monday Night Football, fully padded, and cupped, and guarded, and ready to “play.” The fact that Dude even wanted to play football was a bit of a shock to his dad and I.  He’s not an overly sports-fanatical kid. He hated soccer, puts up with basketball, and would rather spend his time skateboarding and playing his guitar.  So to see his lanky legs sticking out from all that padding, and his little noggin encased in white plastic, while mostly bigger kids try and knock him down, can be just slightly heart wrenching.

But Dude is all about it.

The coaches are like nothing he’s ever experienced…big guys with big personalities, bigger voices, and a passion for the game.  Thankfully, just underneath all that lies a kind-hearted desire to help these kids feel really good about themselves and what they’re able to do.

But back to that hitting thing.

Last Saturday was his first taste of what it means to really be hit in football.  He was running the ball in the hamburger drill, and a bigger kid tackled him mid air. Oooouch.

His dad and I happened to be watching from the sidelines and I wanted nothing more than to run out there, blonde ponytail and all, and give him a boo-boo bunny, and a popsicle, and a great big hug.   But I didn’t.

After his crash, Dude lifted his helmet, wobbled back into line, and tried his best to keep it together.  The crusher, who had taken him out, walked over, popped out his teeth guard, and asked if he was okay. Dude shook his helmet yes, and they had a man moment re-hashing, and dissecting the whole incident. I could tell he was trying desparately not to cry.

Since his first brush with death, Dude has been slightly more nervous about the hitting thing, and has decided he really wants to play Safety; a defensive position, where you are generally more hitter than hitt-ee. 

But he hasn’t quit. And that’s what matters.

More than any play, or route, or drill, what Dude is learning most is how to play on a team, be responsible for his part on it, and to get back up when someone knocks him down, even if it really hurts.

And then, figure out how to avoid being continually hit again.

(Okay, if you feel the overwhelming desire,  go 'head and use the space below to tell me why my kid should NOT be playing tackle football.....)