I miss my boys.
No, I don’t mean my sons. I mean the guys I was blessed to coach in Allendale. And I especially mean a handful of them who became particularly dear to my family.
Any coach or teacher knows that you ought not to have “favorites.” But it’s hard to avoid this.
We’ve had a dozen or more guys over to dinner. (Not at the same time. Good Lord. It was all we could do to prepare enough food for 3 or 4 at a time.) Some of them helped us with summer camps and spring break camps. I did a book study with four.
They played with my own kids — chess, Lego, Wii, soccer, baseball, whatever. (Hint: You ever want to win a parent’s heart? Love on his kids.)
And despite us looking nothing alike and having little in common, I treated them like my own kids. I was demanding (often) and sensitive (occasionally). I gave them practical advice, which sometimes sunk through their stubborn teenage skulls.
We laughed with each other, and we yelled at each other. I let them borrow my car, even after one of them wrecked his sister’s car.
I guess I’m thinking about “my boys” because a couple of guys (whom we were very close to) just graduated high school. A few them finished their freshman year in college. And a few are still in high school, and are getting ramped up for summer workouts.
For only having known them a few years, I’m amazed how much I think about them. I’m sure I’ll lose contact with most of them over the years.
That’s OK. They’ll always be “my boys.”
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