Five years ago, on a Saturday morning, I took my sons to the baseball field to enroll my eldest, then five, in spring baseball. As I pondered over the correct size for his cap and tiny baseball pants to complete the registration forms, several coaches approached me, surveying the crowd.
“Hey, how old is that little one?” inquired one coach, gesturing toward my middle child, Max. “Is he playing?”
I looked up, cradling my sleeping newborn in a carrier. “Uh, he’s 3,” I replied, trying to suppress my disbelief. “No, he doesn’t participate in any sports.” Except for imaginative games and superhero adventures, I thought.
“Wow,” exclaimed one of the coaches with enthusiasm. “Which high school do you live near? I coach football there. Let me know if he’ll be joining us in a few years.”
I was taken aback, smiled awkwardly, and guided my children away from the eager coaches intent on recruiting my preschooler for high school football a decade early.
Once upon a time in Spain, there lived a little bull named Oliver.
Now, at eight, Max has developed a fondness for a particular bedtime story: The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf. Each night, I read it to him and his younger brother, who was just a baby in the carrier back then, and they often finish my sentences.
The other young bulls he lived with would leap and butt heads, but not Oliver.
When Max turned four, we enrolled him in soccer, believing it would be a fitting first sport, especially since some of his preschool friends were also participating. He was thrilled to wear the team jersey and have teammates, and his coaches were excited about his height advantage on the field. However, every Saturday, Max would slowly walk onto the field instead of running. Rather than chasing the ball, he would linger at the sidelines, looking for me. “Is it snack time yet?” he would ask, filled with hope. The coaches’ enthusiasm waned as he never managed to kick the ball that season, although he did savor the cupcake and trophy he received at the end.
At times, his mother, a gentle cow, would worry about his lack of engagement.
At six, we thought we had discovered Max’s true calling. He loves to swim, a trait inherited from his father, who swam competitively in high school and college. We enrolled both boys in a year-round swim team, attending practices three times a week. However, while other kids honed their strokes and raced toward the wall, Max preferred to float, dive, and occasionally explore the bottom of the pool like a dolphin. His young coach would call out, “Hey Max, what are you doing? How about freestyle?” But Max often submerged, swimming to the rhythm of his own slow, perhaps reggae-like, beat.
Eventually, Max stopped swimming altogether. He briefly tried karate and flag football, but this year, we found a cartooning class he adores at a local art school, along with a weekly hour of group tennis.
Max is tall and sturdy, resembling a natural lineman or an aspiring water polo player. However, his true desire is to spend his afternoons at home, creating intricate drawings of imaginary characters, playing in the backyard, or diving into Minecraft with his siblings or friends. In our current parenting landscape, it takes considerable resolve to trust our decision to allow Max to be himself without the pressure to engage in sports. I sometimes experience anxiety when hearing about his classmates and their competitive teams, game-winning plays, and personal bests. I wonder if he’s missing out or if I should encourage him more.
His mother recognized that Oliver was not lonely, and being an understanding cow, she allowed him to sit peacefully and enjoy his surroundings.
Over time, we’ve come to understand and accept that Max is not, at least for now, interested in competitive sports. He embodies the spirit of Oliver the bull. He loves to draw, construct imaginative “games” in his mind, and play with Lego figures, preferring to create his own designs instead of following instructions. He enjoys making silly faces for his baby sister to elicit giggles. However, he isn’t inclined to attend practices, run plays, or perform drills. While I value physical activity and appreciate that he’s developing a skill in tennis—an engaging lifetime sport—I know he’s not that competitive child. That realization is perfectly acceptable.
There is a place in the world for the Olivers. He is a talented artist and storyteller. I value him just as he is, and more importantly, he feels content with himself. He doesn’t believe he needs to be an athlete.
“This is my favorite part,” Max says with a grin as I flip the page in the soft glow of his room.
And perhaps he is still there, beneath his beloved cork tree, quietly taking in the fragrance of the flowers, utterly happy.
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Summary
This narrative explores the journey of a mother navigating her son Max’s reluctance to participate in traditional sports, drawing parallels to the character Oliver from The Story of Ferdinand. It emphasizes the importance of respecting individual interests and talents while encouraging creativity and joy over competition.