Launching Kids into Adulthood: a Team Sport

At my son’s college lacrosse banquet this past May, all the seniors received their home jersey beautifully framed. Black jersey, red trim, white lettering: HELLER, 17. The 13 seniors stood together and unwrapped the brown paper covering from their jerseys in unison. They held them up over their heads whooping like warriors claiming a final victory. They were proud and teary eyed. None of these kids were off to play professional lacrosse. This moment marked the end of years and years of hard work, dedication, money and time spent, mileage logged, friends made, injury, healing, victory and defeat, camaraderie, and belonging--for parents and kids alike. Sports had been a constant framework for all of us as our boys grew into the accomplished, about-to-graduate young men that stood before us. The cheering went on. Parents wiped their eyes. I recalled the banquet 2-weeks prior where my son was honored as a scholar-athlete. He’d done it all. For one last sports-moment, we supported and honored each other and our collective sacrifices and efforts. Before it was time to let go, we remembered and held on tight. The cheering died down. And just like that, it was over.

I felt I had earned that framed jersey as much as my son and I had a four-hour drive home to glance at it in the back seat and wish it were mine. It might seem ridiculous but I knew that no one was going to hand me anything to honor the past 22-years of my life. I know I’m supposed to say that parenting is the job I signed up for and I don’t need to be acknowledged. That witnessing his accomplishments is enough. It is. And maybe it isn’t. We have rituals--weddings, funerals, graduations, sports banquets--for a reason. They tell us we are worth celebrating. They tell us we are seen and appreciated. They guide us into community to support each other through transition and change. I am in a huge transition. Raising my son is my greatest accomplishment. It always will be no matter what else I have done or will do. I wanted someone to notice. I wanted someone to hand me a tangible acknowledgment and little bit of applause. I got home and hung up the jersey on the wall as a temporary trophy.

Two weeks later my son graduated with honors. It was fun and celebratory. The college president acknowledged that this was the class that persevered and succeeded through an entire college career in a pandemic. It began their freshman year and officially ended two days before graduation. I was beyond proud. I smiled more than I teared-up. Education happens everywhere in life. His diploma was a marker of accomplishment on a lifelong path of learning. In contrast, my thoughts drifted to the lacrosse banquet and the jersey which represented so much more. It marked the end of his childhood and the end of parenting as I knew it. Of course, I’ll always be here for him and be his mom but something bigger than college and even lacrosse was complete. I didn’t want his diploma on the wall, I wanted the jersey.

My son was home for a few days before his 6-week graduation trip across the globe (which he planned and paid for himself) and we talked. He told me how grateful he was for all I had done for him to help him be successful. It was wonderful. A gift. He is a gift. I was touched by his awareness and willingness to tell me how he felt. He is a grateful person. This time his words meant even more. And still I was thinking of the jersey.

“You know, I think the parents would have loved a framed jersey, too. I know I would,” I said. “We should have gotten one from the school or at least had the chance to buy one.”

“That’s true.” He paused. “They gave us an away jersey, Mom. Do you want to frame that?”

Yes. I did.

He and I will drive our respective cars, packed to the brim, that same 4-hour drive back to a city that is only miles from where he went to college. We are moving him into his first apartment. He starts an incredible job in September. It’s almost like a do-over from moving him into his freshman dorm -- a chance to get back on the natural path toward adulthood that the pandemic erased. But it’s not a do-over. It’s more like slogging through a time-warp. His moving feels too soon, to sudden, too strange, to permanent. I’m not ready. Pandemic or not, I guess I never will be. Could a framed jersey help with that?

We picked up the away jersey from the framers (white jersey with red trim and black numbers and lettering) and hung it in place of the home-jersey that is now wrapped and ready to move on with my son. There was no ceremony or applause. Just jovial arguing about how high to hang it and if the nails were in the right place. He hung it up. We stood there for a moment -- my 6’4” scholar-athlete towering next to me with his arm around my shoulder.

“Awesome,” he said.

Yes, awe-some. We had gotten him to this spot together. We both worked ourselves silly and loved every second of it. The away-jersey was a symbol of this new phase for us both. We will always be home in each other no matter where we may wonder in world. He’s still on the team. He’s just playing away. It was exactly what I needed.

“Hey, you could leave the home jersey, too,” I joked. “I’ll switch them when you visit. You know, hang the away jersey when you are away. The home jersey when you are home.”

He laughed. I could tell he wanted to say something.

 “Mom.”

 “Yes, Little JJ?”

 “I’m hungry.”

Ritual complete.