My son, now nine years old, has been playing in a recreational soccer league for a couple of years. Since we started to play full field with soccer nets, our team has never won a game, although once we had a tie (1-1).

Our boys never game up. They keep coming back together to [...]]]>

My son, now nine years old, has been playing in a recreational soccer league for a couple of years. Since we started to play full field with soccer nets, our team has never won a game, although once we had a tie (1-1).

Our boys never game up. They keep coming back together to play. Last fall was pretty bad but they were all on board again this spring.

This week we received the “Good Sportsman” award for last fall’s season. After every game our team was rated and we received the highest score each time. When we were given the news, I think the parents all appreciated it. At least it was something. It’s difficult to see your kids out there losing every week. The kids did keep a good attitude.

One week we played a team with extremely obnoxious parents. They had black uniforms and called themselves “World Domination”. At the time, we didn’t know they had the best record. We held them off from scoring the entire first half but had no subs that week. By the second half our guys were exhausted. They wound up scoring ten points against us and the parents went crazy yelling every time. After six or so, you would think they would tone it down. It’s like rubbing it in our kids’ faces. We didn’t appreciate it. I was going to lead the dads over to “take them on” and several were ready to cross the field. We were only half kidding. We thought they were all jerks.

When our kids finally won a game (6-1) yesterday, we were cheering very loudly. Considering this team beat us last season, we had a major accomplishment. Something finally clicked with the team. Kids were playing different positions and my little guy was a forward. They were doing everything right. I couldn’t believe it! We were cheering loudly. We couldn’t help it. It just slipped out. Then we started to feel bad for the other team. Then we talked about how we were acting that that terrible World Domination team. Then a parent commented that he didn’t care, it felt so good to finally win! He joked that he was willing to give up the good sportsman award.

Who would have thought controlling our happiness would be harder than controlling our disappointment? Being a good sportsman was more difficult as a winner. As parents, we’re having just as much to learn as the kids. Hopefully we’ll have to continue to learn how to be good winners.

My entire work career has been spent in nonprofit organizations. Every one of my workplaces has had women in the majority functioning as team with complete collaboration. Titles never mattered. No one ever tried to take credit for group efforts. It has always been about the results.

Last week Third Sector Connector had a wonderful list, 17 Hallmarks [...]]]>  

My entire work career has been spent in nonprofit organizations. Every one of my workplaces has had women in the majority functioning as team with complete collaboration. Titles never mattered. No one ever tried to take credit for group efforts. It has always been about the results.

Last week Third Sector Connector had a wonderful list, 17 Hallmarks of Community Change Agents. A few jumped off the screen:

They value team, and they have an understanding that attracting, retaining, and supporting a strong team is essential to delivering high quality services.

Rather than building silos and rigidly adhering to job descriptions, they encourage ad-hoc teams, cross-training and shared responsibility.

They encourage, value and provide professional development, mentoring and coaching.

You may notice a common thread. The teamwork is blurred. Roles shift and change. People are appreciated. Everyone offers their best because no one is taking credit or calling the work their own. Success stems from a group effort by qualified and valued members.

Over the years, my leadership style has always been based on such impassioned teams. Accomplishments are always paramount to the role I play.

A quote by Harry S. Truman has resonated with me and reminded me of what’s important:

You can accomplish anything in life provided that you do not mind who gets the credit.

It’s so true. This has always been my way of life. For me it is never about the “glory”. I want to improve the lives around me by leading and growing community for the common good.  I don’t believe in saying “I”, it’s always “We”. It’s actually painful for me when I can’t bring people together and I have to watch endeavors wither.

So I’m pleased to be reminded of how real, positive change can be attained.

For a year, I’ve been taking private kickboxing lessons with a group of middle-aged people who all admit to being out-of-shape. Recently our private lessons ended and we had to try the regularly scheduled classes at LA Boxing. I was apprehensive.

While wrapping up my hands before my first class, I heard one young woman say [...]]]>

For a year, I’ve been taking private kickboxing lessons with a group of middle-aged people who all admit to being out-of-shape. Recently our private lessons ended and we had to try the regularly scheduled classes at LA Boxing. I was apprehensive.

While wrapping up my hands before my first class, I heard one young woman say she was going to be 21 and her friend exclaimed she would be 23. I glanced behind me to see who they were. I realized my apprehension had a lot to do with my age.

Sometimes when I walk into this boxing gym I notice the other women look at me. In other gyms they might simply be noticing a fellow hamster in the wheel. But in the boxing setting, I have the distinct impression they’re sizing up the competition.

In the latest LA Boxing promotional video, friends won’t fight the guy in the LA Boxing t-shirt for the remote. He has a reputation. These instances always make me wonder if it’s right for me.

So what am I doing kickboxing anyway?

Marlow and Barbara fighting

Recently The Washington Post ran an article, Blood Sisters: Through boxing, two suburban women build a special bond in the ring. People asked me about the article. They wanted to know what I thought about fighting.

I’ve actually seen these women fight. They stood there and beat each other. They didn’t move. They didn’t block. They hit each other relentlessly. Word was, they were friends.

The article emphasizes their friendship but also the violence:

What’s a best friend if she can’t break your nose or bloody your face?

And in the 2 ½ years that Barbara Bartolomeo and Marlow Prado-Blankenship have been boxing together, they have blackened each other’s eyes, split lips and cracked nose. Later they giggle, displaying their wounds to friends who stare in disbelief, unsure how to respond. After all, what woman in their mid-40’s with husbands and children and sprawling, suburban homes in the Montgomery County community of Boyds beat each other for fun?

I started down the kickboxing path to get into shape and I’m certainly much more fit. In that first class I couldn’t help but notice I had more stamina than the two younger women. 

Being able to protect myself is certainly another benefit. This week a few guys were on the bags around me. I decided to pound out a few kicks to warm up. After my first “thump” they all whipped around to see who had delivered the blow. The confidence to know you can defend yourself is reassuring.

In the Post article, the women said they box to escape. The hard-hitting energy is a release. On more than one occasion, beating the bag has helped vent my frustrations. A friend mentioned having a bad day and feeling like kicking something. I know where you have perfectly legitimate excuse to do so.

One time we were sparring without gear which means you aren’t supposed to hit each other. My friend and I both accidently socked each other in the face at the same exact moment. The competition and aggression can easily get the best of you. I glanced at the clock to see how long my face would sting then experienced a solid ten minutes of pain. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hurt someone or be hurt.

Every week I ache. I’m bruised. Most of the time I can’t lift my arms or legs. But I keep going back. I’m not fighting someone. It’s between me and the 150-lb. bag. I still worry about the perception of being a fighter.

When I was interviewing clients about their journey from homelessness to housing, one woman kept saying “I’m a fighter.” She had suffered from terrible depression and wound up on the streets hopeless, but she found strength and fought back. She was a fighter.

That’s the only kind of fighter I want to be.

I don’t know if I can.

Why am I kickboxing anyway? For a few years, my husband has been suggesting kickboxing whenever I lament my large “slavic thighs”. Joking about my [...]]]> My kickboxing instructor asked me to punch her. She wouldn’t punch back. She’s training for a big fight and needs to get used to being hit.

I don’t know if I can.

Why am I kickboxing anyway? For a few years, my husband has been suggesting kickboxing whenever I lament my large “slavic thighs”. Joking about my thigh genes being passed down for thousands of years to the women of my family, I have the legs of my mom and grandmother. They are the last hold out for my fat deposits, so I need to work them.

My instructor has started to talk to me about competition. An exhibition could eventually lead to sparing against other women. I hold back telling myself that I’m in it for the exercise.

During my third class I took her up on the offer to release my frustrations on the bag. Until that moment, I was just going through the physical motions. “What’s bothering you?” she yelled. With the thought of an annoying situation in my life, I really wailed on that leather bag. The sensation was scary. I’m afraid I’ll lose myself down the long dark tunnel of this aggressive world.

My instructor has a fourth degree black belt. She tells the story of the guy who came up to her with a knife one night. He said “Give me your bag.” She tried to warn him by saying “Don’t mess with me.” He decided to repeat “Give me your bag.” So she tossed it high in the air. When he went to grab it, she punched him hard, caught the bag, and took off. The thought of that kind of power hasn’t left my mind since I heard the story.

Imagine having such control and confidence.

So what’s it going to be? Can I really fight someone? Will I slip into this world and not recognize myself?

I’m still trying to figure out who I am. I must be alive.

As mom’s do, I came down late [...]]]> My husband left all of my younger son’s soccer equipment on a step for one of us to carry upstairs. Of course I didn’t carry it up because it belongs in the bag by the door to the garage so that we can take it with us to practice.

As mom’s do, I came down late last night to check just one thing after the lights were out. I forgot that the stuff was there and fell down half the flight of stairs. You always feel the full pain of an accident in twenty-four hours and this experience is no different. The pain is worse each minute.

I joked on Twitter that it was the “Downfall of the Soccer Mom” and then started to think about what the downfall would really be. I’m new to this jock mom stuff since my older son is not athletic in nature. I’ve made my mistakes. (Everyone, the socks go over the shin guards.) But I think my real downfall will be taking the game too seriously.

He’s only six. Yesterday the ball hit his knee and made a goal for the opposite team. Inside I cringed. I imagined what it would be like if he did that in a few years and possibly lost the game for a very competitive team. In the future he might really take it to heart. He kept telling everyone that it hit his knee including his coach who high-fived him with gusto. It’s okay now. It was funny. He redeemed himself by scoring a goal for his own team. Coach’s son scored one too so we won 2-1. NO, we are not keeping score.

See, this will be my downfall, getting too carried away. Caring about the win. Yelling too loud. Being too competitive. I just hope to remember that I don’t want another downfall for me, the soccer mom.