One Final Game — Thinking Out Loud

My middle son Andrew played his final college soccer game last weekend. Melissa and I made the trip to Halifax and brought his older brother Jeb with us. All five Burroughs were in Canada for a double header weekend. The University of Kings College soccer program has two Burroughs playing for the Blue Devils. Liza in her second year and Andrew in his 4th and final.

The weekend did not turn out as either child had hoped. The goals didn’t come, the minutes ticked away, and the results didn’t materialize. For Andrew, this weekend marked the end of his formal soccer career. I’m certain that anyone who’s experienced the end of his/her own athletic career knows the feeling of emptiness that can follow, especially when things don’t end the way you’d hoped they would.

Most often, I’ve seen these final moments from the sidelines. Even my own soccer career came to its end with me sitting in the stands watching my team lose in the first round of the DIII NCAA tournament. It was on that day that the seeds of my coaching career were planted, a career which has afforded me many chances to witness moments of splendor and heartache through “the beautiful game”.

As coaches, we see the end of things for our players. We see the end of games coming when most don’t; we see goals happening before most people do, and we share the joys and sadness of seasons coming to an end with our players kicking their last ball. For me, like most coaches, there has always been one more game, one more training session, and there has certainly always been a “next year”. Maybe the hardest part of me stepping away from the game as a coach this year has been losing that rhythm of a season from beginning to bittersweet end, the way it flowed in my blood and kept me whole and sane on most days.

On that perfect Halifax day, there was not a cloud in the sky, and yet the realization that I had watched Andrew’s final game brought tears to my eyes. Oftentimes fathers and their boys communicate through sports in a way that is natural, maybe instinctual. It is not to say that women don’t do this too, but there is something different about it with boys and their fathers. We know that through our interactions about games we can connect in a way that we can’t manage in other places; we hint at what is most important to us about our relationship, even if we know we can’t find the courage at the dinner table or when helping with homework. Watching our kids’ competition and sharing the love of a game, we grown men find tears in our eyes when the games are done and the season has run its course. With one glance we can share our acceptance and appreciation, even if the words get stuck in our throats. That day I found myself relieved, exhausted, and a little uncomfortable, knowing that this kind of communication that Andrew and I had enjoyed for so long had come to an end. There won’t be any more shin pads, socks, or boots to buy, no more miles put on the car traveling to games, nights in hotels during tournaments or texts and phone calls for debriefs. Sadly, these fond times also come to an end.

I’ve always wandered when a season is over, feeling like I’m out at sea waiting for a wind to catch my sail. As I traveled the long drive home to Maine, I realized that Andrew was about to move into that state of drifting. He understood that the time he spent with his teammates over 4 years was ending. I remembered what that felt like and I knew what I would have done as his coach to ease that longing and loss, but as the miles rolled on, I realized that neither coach nor father in me was needed. My job was done. He would take it from here.

I’ve known for a while that it was time to really let go, but the finality of this weekend made it easier. I had to embrace the inevitable change that all parents see coming and are never fully ready to welcome. This change offers the promise of beginning something new with all three kids when I welcome them home this winter. I know that the kind of joy I’ve experienced with each of my children, from their earliest moments, will be shared between them and their own. Coaching “the beautiful game” has made my life better. It has connected me with so many people over my career, but most meaningful to me has been watching my own kids develop and embrace their own connections, the sport’s universal language, and its life lessons.