#11

This past weekend, my son Cooper played in his last soccer game with his team of many years. Some of these boys have been together since the days of half-time orange slices.

But all the teams are shifting next year because of national rule changes, and that means that this particular group will be divided.

Cooper will trade in his old jersey for a new one, his old number for a new one, his old team for a new one.

I pulled the shirt out of his soccer backpack this morning for the last time. Dingy, torn, the once bright white now a little off. Spills and stains from grass and Gatorade. A collar that’s stretched from being pulled over hooded sweatshirts in cold weather and from opposing players battling for the ball. Frayed threads line the edges. The jersey fits Cooper a little tighter these days, hangs a little shorter on his torso.

It was time for a new uniform anyway.

But this year, this old jersey feels heavier.

I’ve watched Cooper grow up alongside these boys, and these boys grow up alongside him.

I’ve seen them laugh and cry together, erupt in jubilance after a hard-earned victory, and hang their heads in frustration after a tough loss. I’ve watched them pile into minivans during lightning delays and pile on top of each other after a big goal.

These boys have huddled together for years—on fields, on benches, in airplane rows, at long dinner tables, at the end of hotel room beds. Along the way, a group of kids became a team. They know each other’s strengths and skills, and how to work together to move a ball down a field.

But this team is not only the players. It’s also the parents. And I’m going to miss them, too.

I’ve stood on the sidelines with these moms and dads in rain, snow, stifling heat, and gale force winds. We’ve traveled and waited and paced and cheered and suffered the injustices of a bad offsides call with our fists in the air, together. We’ve shared sunscreen, chairs, blankets, carpools, and our lives with each other over all these seasons.

It’s not just the kids who have grown up together.

Next year there will be a new team, a new jersey, a new number, a new group of families, and new opportunities for memories. Change always leaves some grief in its wake, but also possibility.

Today, holding this jersey, I’m grateful. A little sad, but grateful.

Thanks, #11. You’ve been good to all of us.

My memoir, Piece by Piece: A Life Remembered through Things Lost, is available here.

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