My mom isn’t athletic. At all. She played basketball. Once. Scored a basket in the wrong net. Wondered why everyone was yelling ‘No’ as she streaked down the court. She didn’t realize no one was playing defense. She was focused on one thing. The middle child, finally, getting what had always been denied her. Glory.
No one celebrated. Her teammates glared. Santone, the coach hollered. She didn’t wait for the sub. Walked to the end of the bench. Picked up a clipboard. Resigned herself to the sidelines – stats and shuttle services - for the rest of her life.
Her first email address was kldrides@blahblah.com. She spent more time in the blue paneled Dodge Ram Van driving kids to sports practices than buying food, doing dishes, and washing clothes combined.
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| The Dodge Ram Van |
In 1995 the van’s music box went missing. Literally, the radio was gone, leaving a huge gapping hole in the dashboard. But, rest aside, the music didn’t die.
“Mom, let’s turn on the radio.”
“Meet new friends but keep the old, some are silver, and the other gold…Row row row your boat…This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friends…I love you, you love me…Skidder-ma-rinky dink, skiddereradinky do…John Jacob jingle hymer schmidt”
“Girls, time to turn the radio off.”
“No dad. One more song. We can hear everything from Nat’s walkman. Simply the Best…”
“No more singing. Play the quiet game. First one to say a peep loses…”
Silence.
“Peep.”
“Andrew grow up.”
“Ha. You lose Sarah.”
“Shut up Drew. Lets start over.”
“Come on Dad, do you have to smoke?”
“GAS MASK.” Eight shirts go up over the nose.
“Lets play another game.”
“Horse!!!!!!”
“Graveyard!!!!!! All your horses are dead!!!”
“Dad that’s unfair, you purposely drove past a graveyard.”
“The rules are the rules. I have six horses. You have none.”
Mom, are we there yet? I’m hungry.
Ughh, Nat. Whats that smell?
GAS MASK!!
That’s what life for kldrides was like. She spent the majority of her day in that van carting around a bunch of bopping, boisterous, bitching kids. She put up with a lot. Fortunate for us, she’s pretty patient. I liken her to a quirky angel – one who tells the worst jokes ever, yet tells them so genuinely that people laugh anyway. I inherited her bad humor, unfortunately none her patience. My siblings call me one of two things - Ray Ray Boom or the Spaz. There goes Rachel again, throwing a spaz.
Anyways, those stories can wait. I am not ready to throw myself under the bus. Yet.
Back to mom. When we were young, she never dolled herself up. Must have been too busy raising little shits. Melanie, the blue-eyed baby princess, told mom she didn’t need her to walk her to the bus stop in kindergarten. Mom was older than all the other moms and Mel was embarrassed of her signature frizzy hair and tapered jeans. Mom didn’t care much. At least she never showed it. She had walked seven other undaunted shits to the bus stop. Mel could have it her way.
That’s what was, and I guess still is, great about mom. She never pushed us into doing things we didn’t want to do. She let us be ourselves. She let us play sports, even though she never got them. She never judged us, or forced us to be people we weren’t. Except for the one time, while throwing a spaz, I pleaded with her to quit basketball. She told me I wasn’t allowed too.
After games, she never told us good job. She never knew what a good job in sports looked like. She just always said, ‘you looked beautiful out there.’ And she meant it. She loved watching us play. She thought it was amazing that her kids could score in the right basket.
We didn’t have many rules growing up. The most important one besides “the oldest gets shotgun,” rule was – “a D and your done.” It was Daddy Dawson’s guiding light. The goal was pretty simple - do enough to stay in school, or should I rephrase and say - do enough to stay eligible for sports. We didn’t have to be perfect, or get A’s. Neither of my parents went to college.
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| Andrew and Dave Dawson in their high school football jerseys |
Mom, why isn’t Dave playing? I don’t know Rach.
But seriously, I have to give him props - if David didn’t ask Mom to play tee ball in 1980, and if he wasn’t somewhat good at it, I may have never gone to college.
The coolest thing about Dave’s senior year in high school was when College Coaches started calling the house. They called the downstairs line, which usually we hated answering. But with the chance of talking to coaches, answering the phone became another reason for sisterly competition. I talked to Kansas State, Monmouth, and East Carolina today, I would brag to anyone who’d listen. Only after a ten minute conversation with Coach so and so, would I scream, “DAVIDDDDDDDDDD.”
One Friday fall afternoon, though, I made a major oops. Dave had a big football game against Lenape that night. He was upstairs in his room sleeping. I wanted him to play great that night, so I tried my best not to disturb him. The phone rang. It was Coach who-ever from Kansas State. Is David there?
I didn’t know what to do. Sure, Dave was there, but he hated when we bothered him on game days. I crept up to his room. The stairs squeaked beneath my lumbering feet. I opened the door, and took a peak inside. “Stop, drop, Shut ‘em down, open up shop. Woahhh. Woah.” Dave’s pregame nap-time music was blaring.
Hey Coach. Dave is resting. He has a big game tonight, and can’t talk right now. Sorry. Maybe he will call you back. If he wins. Then I hung up.
A little later, Dave came downstairs. “Hey Dave. Someone from Kansas State called.”
What do you mean? Why didn’t you get me?
You were sleeping Dave.
For real, Rach, you didn’t get me.
Sorry Dave, I thought the game was more important. Plus, I made you sound good. Resting for the game, you are a serious athlete.
Not sure Kansas State ever called him back.
One day, mom tried to teach me how to run. Rachel and Sarah. Outside, now. What Mom? I am in the middle of stealing Sarah’s clothes and changing the S’s into R’s. I just finished her underwear, working on her socks.
I said Now.
Sarah, run. Rachel, watch. Do you see how she does it?
Do what she did. Go.
No. Not like that. Don’t lean to the right. Shoulders even.
Like this?
No, even. Stand up straight.
Mom, I can’t.
Yes. You can.
Mom, let me see you do it.
Rachel. Are you crazy? I can’t run. I have to finish dinner. Stay out here. Keep running till you can run straight. I will whistle when the food is ready.
But, mom.
I ran two lopsided sprints then hid in the backyard, shooting hoops.
Mom, will you come outside and catch the football for me? Not now David. I have to finish dinner. Your sisters need a bath. Ask your brother.
Yo, Drew. Nat, where’s Drew? I’m not his mom Dave. You’re such a bitch Nat.
Mom, Drew’s not here. His bike is gone.
Mom, why are the cops in the driveway?
Your son brought the tools. He dug hills in a construction sight. He was riding his bike on them. I could arrest him.
Damn it Drew.
Mom. Meghan’s doing that thing again.
Meg what did I tell you about laying like that.
Mom. She won’t stop.
Hannah Rose. Go outside and swing on the swings. Don’t stop until I say so.
Rach. Run a five yard slant. What’s that? Run five steps straight, then two steps on a slant. But Drew, I can’t run straight. Rach, just do it. I will throw you the ball on the slant. Drew, are you going to throw it hard. Yea, Rach. Just catch it. How do I catch it. Make a window with your hands. Let the ball spiral between them. Okay.
52. 32. Set, hut, hike.
Shit Drew. That hurt. You hit me in the chest. Rach, that is where I am supposed to hit you. You are supposed to catch it. I know Drew but you threw it so hard.
I can’t get better if I don’t throw it my hardest. But Drew, I’m 10, and don’t play football.
Who cares Rach, do it again. Okay, Drew.
Sarah, why is Rachel crying outside?
It wasn't me Mom. I swear. Andrew keeps throwing things at her.
Mom, can we have some of those brownies.
No.
But why Mom, you made 10 trays?
They are for the football team.
Why do they get brownies and we don’t?
Because David didn’t get sacked this week.
Who cares Mom? I didn't get sacked either.
I care. And you don't play football. If those boys protect my son, I make them brownies. That's the deal.
It's still unfair.
Hannah, stop sneaking the brownies.
It wasn't me, Mom. It was Meghan.
Hannah, I can see the devil's dancing in your eyes.
And oh how those devil's danced in all of our eyes. Such was life for kldrides, my unathletic mother and her eight little shitting, bitching kids who happen to fall in love with sports.
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