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My mother has taught me many things over my 22 years, but there are two for which I will be forever grateful. One was to read. The other was that I wasn’t going to be the next Michael Jordan.
One slow dog of a day in mid-August of my sixth summer, after she had grown tired of listening to me whine about how I wanted a Super Nintendo like the rest of my friends, she retrieved a copy of “To Kill A Mockingbird” and placed it on the table in front of me.
“We don’t play video games here,” she told me. “We read. That book will keep you company. You can never be bored when you have a book.”
“I’ll do anything but read,” I replied boldly.
“Then you can go play outside,” she replied calmly. “Those are your two options.”
Enraged as only a six-year-old hellion can be, I turned defiantly and ran out the back door into the triple-digit heat and humidity stewing in our back yard.
I returned a few hours later, after two dozen laps around the block, 300 jump shots and a half-hour of tossing the football to myself. Too exhausted to gripe about how I wanted to play Tetris, I grabbed the tattered hardcover book that my mother had placed in front of the sofa.
As soon as I read about Jem’s affinity for passing and punting, my fears were assuaged. I read on. I did not stop until one long summer had ended, a fall had taken its place, and Boo Radley had come out.
I had learned to love to read.
The subscription to “Sports Illustrated” followed later that year on my birthday. My mother knew her firstborn was sports-crazed before I could even tell her in words. She suspected as much when, at 18 months, I lined up my stuffed animals in the wishbone offense. I read every page— the stories of spoiled, overpaid underachievers and the sagas of gritty, hard-fought success. When I wasn’t reading “SI”, I was honing my skills, certain that one day I would grace its cover.
It must have been hard for my mother that day—after making sure Santa brought me the football uniforms I had asked for each Christmas, after watching me re-create Super Bowls in the front yard every day after school, after addressing and stamping all those illegible letters I wrote to the University of Texas football coaches telling them how to do their job— to tell me that I wasn’t going to be a pro football player. It must have been hard for her to tell the awkward, freckle-faced first grader the truth.
“You weren’t made to be a great athlete,” she told me. “You weren’t born big enough or fast enough to play football. If you want to play, you’re going to have to work really hard at it.”
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