Yesterday, shopping for a secondhand bike, I met a woman whose son was severely injured playing high school football. He's in a wheelchair, perhaps permanently.
They live just a mile away; I met her briefly yesterday, standing and talking on her front steps, and might never see her again. She spoke matter-of-factly about the injury; I made feeble noises of sympathy.
Coming home later, I could hardly breathe.
American football is insane, and we are a mentally ill country to be so fascinated by it. A country that (like the ancient Romans) likes to see beautiful young men destroyed before their eyes. Why? Why on earth?
I think we can do better. Flag football is a wonderful game; my brother and his friends played it a lot in the streets when we were growing up.
This woman, going through such a horrible experience, seemed utterly calm. Not joyful, but calm. Her quiet expression was filled with a kind of light--maybe I'm seeing it through the lens of my emotions at that moment, but I don't think so. I think she's experienced just about every kind of hell a mother can experience, but has come through it with a sense of purpose. I took a lot of inspiration from her in those five minutes I spent with her, talking mostly about her son's bike.
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