This week’s column is the final in a collection titled, “Love Letters To My Son” — a set of random texts, notes and letters between John Fountain and his son, now 17 and a highschool senior.
Wednesday July 31, Son overseas for the summer season at Oxford University — Dad: “Dear Malik, I’m so pleased with you. Proud of who you might be. Proud of who you might be turning into.
“…We have missed you each single day. Our hearts and residential are incomplete with out your presence. …Can’t wait to see you, son.”
A chilly wet Saturday in October — Dad: I roll south with anxiousness on the freeway. Malik is working within the regional cross-country meet in Kankakee at 11 a.m., the place he simply missed qualifying for the sectionals final 12 months. He had gotten injured in follow lifting weights earlier than final 12 months’s race. He was crushed.
It was a season of classes: Men should cope with disappointment. Cry for those who should. Regroup. Keep working. Vow to return again stronger subsequent 12 months.
Next 12 months had come — his senior 12 months, his final 12 months to try to get to state, a minimum of previous regionals. He was peaking after lastly getting his working legs again towards season’s finish, ending first amongst his teammates over the previous couple of weeks, working onerous, robust. His energy coaching and stick-to-itiveness had paid off. His plan — our plan — was working.
Then it occurred. Somewhere between working within the final meet earlier than regionals and a downtown parade with the marching band, he had injured his decrease proper calf. We iced it, massaged, stretched and rested, attempting to prepare for Saturday’s race. But it was wanting increasingly like it could be an element. He had woke up in good spirits however nonetheless in ache.
When my son and I walked the regionals course the night earlier than — as we now have during the last two years — in preparation for the race, he limped and grimaced. And it appeared uncertain that he might be aggressive, if run in any respect.
I apprehensive that working would possibly trigger higher damage. I additionally felt deeply his disappointment, understood his anger.
“Malik, you don’t have to run, son,” I had instructed him as we walked the course.
“I do,” he mentioned defiantly.
“Son, you really don’t, it’s okay. It’s not your fault that you’re injured. You don’t have to run…”
“I do.”
Even as I drive towards the meet, lower than 24 hours later, I’m not certain how he’ll fare. My cellphone rings. It is his mom. The officers are beginning the race early. The groups are lining up.
“How’s he looking?”
“He’s hurting,” my spouse says, her voice cracking.
My coronary heart beat quick. I stepped on the gasoline. “I’m coming.”
The rain is pouring and I’m nonetheless a number of miles away when my cellphone rings once more. “Babe, he’s really hurting. I don’t think he can finish,” his mother says, her voice surging with ache and emotion. “I’m going to tell him he can stop…”
“Don’t! I got him, I got him. I’m almost there.”
I arrive and dash to the sphere. I see my son working laboriously, grimacing, jack-knifed with ache as he continues to place one foot in entrance of the opposite. Not towards the entrance of the pack as common however means within the again.
I run into the woods, the place I hope to encourage him as he rounds the bend, unsure if he can end. I don’t see him. I’m wondering if he has stopped. Then immediately…
I see him, limping, his face etched in ache and disappointment, working with dedication to complete what he began.
I handle to carry again my tears till he passes. Then I allow them to roll freely. For a son whom I’ve witnessed matriculate towards manhood. A son who will all the time make my coronary heart sing. A son who makes me overjoyed to be his father.
Author@Johnwfountain.com
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