Sacrifice: A Season is a Lifetime Read online

  Between Baby & Basketball

  By Kevin Lucia

  Copyright 2010 - © Kevin Lucia

  Originally published January 1st, 2010, Love is A Verb, Bethany House

  All rights reserved.

  Between Baby & Basketball

  Not long ago, I thought I knew what true love and sacrifice was.

  After all, I’d had plenty of experience with both. Having endured a failed wedding engagement, I’d learned love couldn’t be built on good intentions. It needed stability, responsibility, and sacrifice. Through dating, I’d compiled a healthy “never do” list, which included, but wasn’t restricted to: never leave the toilet seat up, never ask “Why does your mother always do that?”, and never make specific or indirect references to weight gain. After marriage, several items were added: never compare your wife’s meatballs to your mother’s, and never say the following: “Well, Mom always made it this way…”

  Four years into marriage, and I’d done pretty well. I’d been given good advice by a mentor that “love isn’t all poems and romance; it’s hard work and sacrifice”, so I’d worked hard. I shared dishwashing, laundry, and other chores with my wife, made dinner now and then and even watched a ‘chick flick’ or two. I bought and picked flowers, and even worked on her flower gardens one summer as a birthday gift. Everything was great, we were happy, and going into our first pregnancy, I “knew” how to love my wife and how to make sacrifices.

  One night nine years ago, after walking along Route 81 North out of Binghamton in the rain, I realized I didn’t know a thing.

  It was my second year coaching Men’s Basketball at Davis College, and the season had fallen apart. I’d made key mistakes, we’d lost games, but worst of all: I’d lost the confidence of my players and the fans. Coaching part-time and teaching full-time had worn me down, and though wondrous, our daughter’s birth had turned our lives upside down. I was fighting too many battles, and losing them all. For a while I’d managed to make everything look great on the outside, but I imploded that night, walking home in the rain, after my truck caught a flat on the highway around midnight.

  We’d lost again that afternoon, badly. Our season – which had shown early promise – was disintegrating before my very eyes, and I was powerless to stop it. Worse, I’d lost my temper over something which was trivial in hindsight, and now players were whispering. I knew it’d make its way to my Athletic Director eventually.

  So, as I trudged down a dark, lonely highway in the rain, I worried about these things: our disappointing season, my reputation as a coach and person, and my tattered plans of basketball success. Chilled by wind and rain, I couldn’t see past the darkness, the black highway asphalt, and my coaching woes. This was my one chance to prove my worth, and it was slipping away. In addition, not only would I have questions to answer tomorrow, I’d also need my truck towed off the highway, it’s blown tire fixed – something we really couldn’t afford.

  My relief was tangible when I finally reached home. Cold, tired, and discouraged, I wanted to sleep my troubles away, so I’d have the energy to fix all these ‘important’ things. Everything changed when I opened my front door. My living room greeted me with the sight of my wife, crying, desperate, and my newborn daughter screaming.

  Abby’s a nurse. As such, she’s not rattled easily. In her typical day, she deals with some awfully gruesome things – which she usually chooses to tell me about over dinner, in equally gruesome detail. In any case, before that night, I’d never seen her so desperate and afraid.

  My world telescoped. Everything “important” dropped away, leaving only my crying, scared wife and my wailing baby girl.

  In the end, it turned out to be something minor. Madison had suffered her first cold, had been stuffed up, and couldn’t breathe well. We were new, anxious parents, easily scared. However, the incident hit me like a sledgehammer. It occurred to me later that night I’d gone the whole day without thinking of Abby or Madison, my mind occupied by such big, important things. During my lonely sojourn down Route 81, I’d obsessed over my basketball troubles, while at that exact moment; my wife worried about our daughter’s well-being, desperate for my return.

  Some might say that night was just part of the normal challenges in balancing coaching and raising a family. Regardless, it signaled the end of my coaching career. For the first time in a while, I asked Abby, “What do you need most from me right now?” We talked until three AM that morning.

  Two weeks later, my coaching career ended, well before the season did. Perhaps my departure was premature and hasty, maybe even acrimonious. Certainly, many were confused, concerned, let down… possibly even hurt. For a time, I fielded phone calls and emails from parents, friends, and associates, explaining as best I could. Eventually, I circled the wagons and simply told everyone, “My family needs me more than Davis College basketball does.”

  It was true. When I finished coaching, the stress faded. Our lives became our own again, and a very simple, pleasant routine emerged: I went to school, taught, and came home to my wife and daughter.

  I’d finally discovered what it meant to truly love, through my difficult sacrifice.

  Hadn’t I?

  One last bump in the road remained. Several weeks after I left the court for the last time, my wife was scheduled for her first weekend back working at the hospital. At that point, we hadn’t developed the intricate babysitting network of experienced parents. Abby’s mother was busy caring for her elderly mother, my mother had suffered a stroke and wasn’t capable, and thus, the spotlight fell directly upon me.

  Cue shortness of breath, sweaty palms, and clenching heart.

  This wasn’t good.

  I was a guy. Guys didn’t watch babies. They fixed things, took out the garbage, mowed lawns. They didn’t watch babies. Plus, I was clumsy; perhaps the clumsiest man on Earth. I dropped and broke things. Ask my dad, he knew. Not to mention, I wasn’t good at following directions and had a short attention span. What if I mixed her formula wrong or she suffocated under her blanket when I wasn’t paying attention? Also, the thought of her crying intimidated me. I’m not violent by nature, but I’d heard all about ‘Shaken Baby Syndrome’. What if Madison started crying, she wouldn’t stop, I got angry and hurt her?

  Plus, I was a writer struggling to be a published author. As a teacher, I only had time to write on the weekends. How could I write and watch Madison? Hadn’t I sacrificed enough? Did I have to give up this, too?

  The week before my impending date with babysitting destiny – or doom, depending on whom you spoke to – I incessantly peppered my wife with these doubts. I schemed of financial ways we could afford to keep her home from work just a little while longer, until we could afford a babysitter. I made detailed, rational arguments about how Madison would benefit if Abby stayed home longer. Right up until that fateful Saturday morning, I badgered and poked and prodded, when once again my life telescoped, and I got a hard, unflattering look at myself.

  Here was Abby, dressed for work, tears glittering in her eyes at the thought of leaving behind her firstborn daughter. Not only did she worry about that, but she also worried about how she’d perform at work. Could she keep up? Was she too rusty? Was she ready physically? She, better than me, understood our finances and knew we needed her to work, but it tore her apart all the same.

  At that moment, when my wife needed her husband’s support, what was I doing to help her?

  Not a blessed thing.

  In fact, I’d only made her feel worse, in the hopes that she’d stay home so I could duck the responsibility of caring for Madison.

  In that moment, I realized something shocking: through all the turbulence of the past few months,
I’d learned nothing. I was still doing what I wanted to do, and I realized an awful truth about my resignation. Coaching had become a burden. I was tired physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Things hadn’t worked out the way anyone wanted, and I hadn’t wanted to coach anymore.

  Don’t misunderstand. Leaving behind basketball was necessary. Our lives improved drastically once I quit coaching. However; in the end, I quit because I didn’t want to do it anymore.

  That Saturday morning, I learned a lesson of love. Love requires hard work and sacrifice; but so often it requires sacrifices we don’t want to make; in fact are scared witless to make. I’d tricked myself into thinking my resignation was the ultimate sacrifice, because after all, I loved basketball. Walking away from coaching had been hard, but I’d missed the subtle fact that it had been something I wanted to do. In contrast, truly loving someone requires doing that which we fear most and want to do least. Unfortunately, we often deceive ourselves about how sacrificial we really are in order to shield ourselves from making those sacrifices.

  With a deep breath, I told my wife, “Go to work, honey. We’ll be okay.”

  Blinking back unshed tears, she whispered, “Are you sure?” Shamefully, even in the face of my cowardice, my wife was considerate of my fears over hers.

  I nodded and gave her a crooked grin. “We’ll manage. You need to do this, but honestly…so do I.”

  Of course, that was only the first lesson of love I learned that weekend. I also learned about an entirely different type of love, one that many of us – especially men – discount. In some ways, it’s easy for us to love our wives, those whom we kiss and snuggle and woo. Even for relatively mature men; loving is usually mixed in with the concept or promise of romance, and before we have children, that’s all ‘love’ means to us.

  That weekend, I learned of a different love. For two days, the welfare of this lovely baby girl lay completely in my hands. At two months old, she was powerless and relied solely upon me. In this case, showing true love meant holding the very essence of life in my hands, and providing for its every need, every moment. There were no clever hiding places here, like the one I’d found in my departure from coaching. For two days, I existed completely in a sacrificial moment; sometimes unwillingly, (like when I wanted to nap and she didn’t), in order to preserve the life of my daughter.

  I’d like to paint a warm, Hallmark rendition of warmth, tenderness, and intimate father-daughter moments. To be sure, those moments did arise. However, I mostly remember baptism by every bodily fluid known to man. I also spent nine hours both days in the same rocking chair, because I discovered that when Madison fell asleep, it was better off for both of us if I just stayed there. At least she’d sleep, and if I propped myself upright, I could nod off awhile, also. I learned that though babies certainly know when they’re hungry, they’d don’t always know when they’re full. You can imagine the results if they’re not burped regularly.

  My life changed forever that weekend. I’m human, so I still make mistakes more often than I’d like. However, today I enjoy a close relationship with both my daughter and now my son, because I’ve labored in this selfless love. Our marriage has blessed, because Abby knows that instead of just doing the “man stuff”, I’ve come alongside her, taken her hand, and walked step-by-step with her on our journey.

  That’s what true sacrifice is, which leads to true love. However, the final truth is this: love’s lessons are never over, nor are we ever done making sacrifices. We do so in small, day-to-day moments, for the rest of our lives.

  About the Author

  Kevin Lucia is an Associate Fiction Editor for The Horror Channel, and his short fiction and nonfiction has appeared in several anthologies. He’s currently finishing his Creative Writing Masters Degree at Binghamton University, he teaches high school English and lives in Castle Creek, New York with his wife and children. Visit him at: www.kevinlucia.com.

 

 

  Kevin Lucia, Sacrifice: A Season is a Lifetime

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