When you are the parent of an athlete, you spend a lot of time cheering. Sitting on cold metal bleachers in the driving rain, you watch as your son, a dripping wet muddy mass of cardinal red, barrels into a sea of green, blocking with all his might in an effort to give the quarterback time to throw. The ball is released and when the pass sails into the end zone, you cheer. On a sunny spring day, pacing back and forth behind the dugout, afraid to look up, you listen for the crack of the bat, wishing, hoping, praying for the elusive hit that finally comes in the bottom of the seventh inning. You hear the crack. The ball launches off the end of the bat.  The game is tied. And you cheer.

On the sidelines of a soccer field in a county park, as the leaves in the trees begin to turn shades of reds and yellows and browns, the whistle blows, signaling halftime. The players, sweaty and tired, walk off the pitch and grab their water bottles. They are behind 0-2. The other team is having their way with them and, determined to encourage them to keep playing hard, you cheer.

I met Garrie a few years ago when our kids played soccer together. We sat in a circle in his living room, gathered together to learn about what was in store for us and our children in the upcoming season. I remember looking around that circle of uneasy strangers and wondering if there was anyone among them who I might connect with. My silent judgments began immediately. They were all too something; too old, too young, too experienced, too green, had too much money or not enough. My own personal anxieties of exclusion. In the hours spent sitting at parks and practice fields and school soccer pitches, who, among this group of parents thrown together through yet another kid related activity, would I cheer with?

It didn’t take too long to answer that question.

In the world of youth sport spectators, there are sitters and there are standers. The sitters arrive early, remove their canvas chairs and their coordinated umbrellas from their respective matching bags and find a perfect spot on the 50 yard line or out along the first or third base line at which to park themselves. They bring their coolers and no fat, double shot, caramel lattes and organic suntan lotion and set their claim to the perfect spot from which to cheer.

The standers, on the other hand, are a different animal all together. Standers pace the sidelines. They cannot be confined to the 50 or the 40 or the third base line. Standers go with the action. As the ball moves up and down the field, standers go too, matching the player’s movements from end to end.

Standers do not simply stand and watch, standers participate, swinging their arms and legs along with the athlete in a kind of virtual game. They corner kick the imaginary ball, apply the imaginary tag at the plate or block the imaginary lineman with as much body English as they can muster. They bring their lattes and sunscreen too, but the lattes go cold, the sunscreen unopened. Standers are too busy to be bothered with distractions.

Garrie was a stander. He’d arrive at the field just before game time in his khaki shorts, t-shirt and wide brimmed canvas sun hat, ready for action. He’d bring his big blue eyes and youthful enthusiasm and for two hours he would play alongside our kids, moving up and down the sideline in concert with the players. He’d swing his hips and kick his legs, blocking, passing and willing the shot toward the net. Cheering in his own wonderful way.

Garrie died the other day, falling victim to cancer. I hadn’t seen him in a while and the news of his death came as a huge shock to me. He left behind two wonderful children, a life partner and a whole bunch of people who loved him.

The news of his passing brought a host of images to mind. Snapshots of those two years spent cheering from the sidelines. I thought about his warm smile, those sideline conversations about soccer and kids and life. In a sometimes tumultuous season, I looked forward to seeing him and I was grateful for his friendship. And despite my fearful anxiety that day in his living room, I did find someone to cheer with, someone with whom I could connect. Someone who’s passion for sports and their kids was similar to mine, because, as you may have guessed, I am a stander too.

Rest in peace, Garrie Nicoll.  You are missed.

photo from here.