One bright Saturday morning about five years ago, I decided to take my trio of boys to the local baseball field. I was there to enroll my eldest, then just 5 years old, for spring baseball. As I fumbled with forms, trying to figure out what size cap and tiny baseball pants he’d need, a couple of coaches approached me, pacing around the crowd.
“Hey, how old is that little guy?” one coach inquired, pointing to my second son, Max. “Does he play?” I glanced up, balancing my newborn asleep on my chest in a baby carrier. “Uh, he’s 3,” I replied, half in disbelief. “Nope, he doesn’t play… anything.” Except for his intense Star Wars reenactments and superhero fantasies, I thought.
“Wow,” said one coach, nodding approvingly. “Which high school are you zoned for? I coach football over at the local school. Let me know if he’s heading my way.” I gave him a bewildered smile and swiftly guided my children away from the eager coaches trying to recruit my preschooler for high school football—way too early.
Once upon a time in Spain, there was a little bull named Leo.
Fast forward to today, my now 8-year-old Max has been requesting the same bedtime story every night: The Story of Ferdinand, by Munro Leaf. Each evening, I read it to him and his younger brother—the very baby I once carried in an Ergo—and they joyfully finish my sentences for me.
All the other little bulls Leo lived with would romp and butt heads, but not Leo.
When Max turned four, we thought we’d found his sport: soccer. It seemed like a fun beginner’s activity, especially since some of his preschool friends were joining too. He was thrilled to wear the jersey and be part of a team, and his coaches were excited because he towered over his teammates. But every Saturday, as we trudged to the soccer fields, Max would stroll—never run—onto the field. Instead of chasing the ball, he would hover at the sidelines, looking for me. “Is it snack time yet?” he’d ask with the most hopeful eyes. The coaches’ enthusiasm faded. He didn’t even kick the ball once that season, but he did enjoy the cupcake and trophy on the last day.
Sometimes, his mom, who was a cow, worried about him.
At six, we were convinced we’d found the perfect fit: swimming! With a father who swam in high school and college, it seemed destined that our kids would follow suit. We enrolled them in a year-round swim team, attending practices three times a week. But while the other kids sliced through the water like torpedoes, Max preferred to float and dive to the bottom like a playful dolphin. His young coach’s voice would echo, “Hey Max, what’re you doing? Max? How about freestyle?” But Max barely heard him, lost in his underwater world, swimming to his own (slow, perhaps reggae?) rhythm.
But Leo would shake his head. “I like it better here where I can just sit quietly and smell the flowers.”
Eventually, Max stopped swimming. He tried karate twice a week and even flag football. This year, we settled on a cartooning class at a local art school every Saturday and just one hour of group tennis weekly. Max is a tall, sturdy child, looking like he could easily dominate on the football field or become a formidable water polo player. Yet, all he truly desires is to spend his afternoons in the backyard, crafting elaborate stories with Lego figures or indulging in Minecraft with his brothers and friends. In today’s competitive parenting climate, especially where we live, it takes a lot of confidence to let Max be himself and not force him into sports. My heart races at times when I hear about his classmates excelling in travel teams and breaking records. I wonder if he’s missing out or if I should encourage him more.
His mother observed that Leo was not lonely, and being an understanding cow, she allowed him to simply sit and enjoy his happiness.
What we’ve learned, over time, is that Max isn’t—at least not yet—interested in competitive sports. He is our Leo the bull. He loves to draw, create imaginative games in his head, and build unique structures instead of following instructions. He enjoys making silly faces for his baby sister to enjoy. However, he shows no interest in practices, drills, or running plays. I want him to stay active and appreciate that he’s now learning tennis—a skill he can use for life. Regardless of how much he resembles the dream of every youth coach, my son is just not that kid. And we’ve come to realize that’s perfectly fine. There’s a place in the world for the Ferdinands, after all. He’s a remarkable artist and storyteller. I love him just as he is, and most importantly, he loves himself just the way he is. He doesn’t feel the need to be an athlete.
“This is my favorite part,” Max grins as I turn the page in the soft glow of his bedroom.
And for all I know, he’s still sitting there under his beloved cork tree, quietly savoring the flowers. He is a very happy bull.
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