College Visits

The college visit is a rite of passage and an event to be treasured; a road trip typically taken by one parent and the child, it is invariably a warm and exciting experience. Your baby is growing up and will be leaving home. The ride gives you the chance to discuss career options and plans, relate experiences from your own youth and just enjoy the changes that are happening to your kid. My boys played football and their school choices revolved around playing in college. In both instances the trips began in earnest in the spring.

A rebirth or a time of renewal, call it what you will, spring is the season of hope: the start of a period of new growth. March Madness is behind us and the baseball season has started. But if you have a high school football player in his junior year, a different season is in full swing and that is the college-recruiting season. This can be an exhilarating, as well as a frustrating experience for these young men.

The process starts when the student-athlete begins their junior year of high school. That is the earliest date that the NCAA allows college coaches to contact students, and only then by mail. Very often college coaches will send mail addressed to the student, to his high school coach. The high school coach will then give it to the student on the first day of class. It's not unusual for a young man to come home from that first day of school with a bundle of mail from several colleges.

While you may have attended a few games in the fall and enjoyed the game day experience on those college campuses, spring is typically when the recruiting process intensifies. Yes, the games are fun, full of pageantry with lots of pretty girls. But spring practice reveals the essence of college football. The recruit witnesses the competition on the team. Last season's returning starters are trying to keep their positions and avoid injuries; every other guy is fighting to win a starting spot. Coaches are teaching physical skills one moment and screaming about mental mistakes the next.

There is much more to be written about the recruiting process, but that is not the point of this narrative. These college visits are about much more than athletics. They're about growing and maturing, both as a parent and as a child. As we traveled together, we discussed social and political issues that we sometimes agreed upon and at other times vehemently disagreed. It was incredibly refreshing. Prior to these trips, our discourse centered on academic performance, appropriate behavior and physical conditioning, along with the occasional comment or advice on interpersonal relationships. This was different; we were two guys on the road, debating the merits of growing corn for fuel or whether the death penalty is justified.

There were also lighter moments; we didn't always get into deep, philosophical discussions. Sometimes we just relaxed and listened to the radio and discovered that there was actually music we both liked, or at least could tolerate. Occasionally a passing sight would spark a memory. Passing a farm once evoked memories of visiting my cousin's farm in West Virginia and how both boys freaked out when we caught a fish. The squirming, slimy thing shaking on the end of the line was a little much for two, big-city toddlers. And of course, one such memory led to another and eventually we were laughing to the point of crying for untold miles.

There were poignant, touching memories that the boys also recalled. On one trip, Jason brought up the time we left him at a turnpike rest area when he was 10 years old. We were on a family vacation in the mini-van. The boys either sat or lay down in different rows, and between the luggage, pillows and blankets, you couldn't always see both boys. We were about a half-mile from the rest area on the Ohio Turnpike when Travis jumped up and asked, "Where's Jason?" I immediately pulled the van over and stopped on the shoulder, told my wife to drive to an exit and turn around and come back for us. Then I hopped out and ran back to the rest area. Jason was outside the building, looking for the van. He wasn't scared yet, just puzzled. When he saw me jogging across the parking lot he started grinning. "Where's Mom and Travis?"

"They left without us."

"Is Mom mad?"

"No buddy, they just forgot us. They'll be back."

"Okay."

That was it, no problem, end of story. While waiting for my wife to came back and pick us up, Jason and I hung out at McDonalds, playing paper football or thumb wrestling. At one point we walked around and looked at trucks. One trucker even let Jason sit inside his big rig.

Leaving Jason at the rest area was a mistake I would never forget, or repeat. But it became one of those special times between father and son and a touching memory.

Once, on a trip returning from The University of Pittsburgh, Travis asked me if I had ever gone on college visits in high school or if I had wanted to play college sports. I told him no, I didn't go on any college visits and wasn't good enough to play sports in college. That answer didn't suffice and he asked more about the sports I had played as a youth. I sensed he wanted me to confirm that he was indeed a "chip off the old block". That's something I couldn't do, but I nevertheless told him of my childhood athletic endeavors.

Things were different then, not better or worse, just different. We were a one-car family and both parents worked 2 jobs. It was a rare treat when either of my folks got to watch a little league game. I don't think they ever got to see one of my CYO basketball games because they were played during the week. But football was always on Sunday. We'd all go to Mass and then to my football game making it a family and church- community affair. They did make it to a few high school football games on the varsity level. However, they couldn't devote all of their free time to my sporting events or practices, they had to focus as much attention on my sister as they did to me. And they always seemed tired from working. As I explained this to Travis, I sensed that reminiscing about my childhood was making him a little sad. I had to put my own experiences as a youngster into its proper perspective.

"Don't shed any tears for me, pal. I'm not complaining. I had a great childhood. My experiences growing up were different from yours, not better or worse, just different. In many ways I'm sorry you didn't get to have some of my experiences. There is nothing that compares to walking a mile or two along city streets with a group of friends, heading to a baseball field in our uniforms . . .or taking a shortcut alongside the railroad tracks to a sandlot game. Nobody's parents came to many games. My folks loved Aunt Judy and I just as much as your Mom and I love you and your brother. And just like your Mother and I, my Mom and Dad did everything they could to provide opportunities for their kids to be happy and to prosper. It was just a different time then."

I had to catch myself and cut my comments short. It would have been far too easy to ramble on about my childhood. But, what a childhood it was! Playing in a parking lot with a baseball covered with electrical tape (the asphalt would tear up the ball's cover). Once in awhile, a brave soul would climb onto the roof of the post office. There he would find a few baseballs that had been lost by other kids. These balls were invariably rain-soaked. Throwing home from deep center with a wet (HEAVY) baseball was exhausting. And there is nothing that compares to the sting you feel in your hands, up you arms and into your shoulders, when you hit a water-logged ball. Boy, those are great memories.

Let's not forget touch football in the street. Our street was brick and every ten feet or so, there was an oil slick left from the cars that parked overnight. That kept the game interesting. From the age of 9 thru 15, I think I had a constant bruise on both shins due to chasing errant passes, hitting an oil slick and colliding with a fire hydrant. We learned the old adage, "play with pain" at an early age.

My comments appeared to accomplish what I had intended, as I sensed a change in his demeanor. Then he turned the emotional table on me when he said, "Yeah, okay, I understand. But still, it would have been cool if your Dad had been able to do for you what you've done for me." With that nonchalant remark, he turned on the radio and began searching for a station we both could tolerate. That was the end of the conversation as far as he was concerned and it was a good thing at that. I don't think I could have said anything coherent for the next few minutes. Bursting into tears would have ruined the moment. Thank God for sunglasses.

That's what those college visits have become for me; tender memories of special times between my sons and myself. However, they invoked conflicting emotions at the time. My sons were on the line between child and adult. I was both proud of the fine young men I had raised and sad that my little boys were gone.