"Very intense!"
This was the assessment that popped out at me the most on Jackson's skills analysis after a week at basketball camp last month. I laughed out loud when I read it, because a) I could've filled out this field in advance without paying $xxx for the privilege, and b) I always get a kick out of someone new witnessing in action my Tasmanian devil with a Mohawk, then having to offer some kind of polite professional appraisal.
"Very intense!" has been Jackson's M.O. since the dozen or so doctors flew into the delivery room when he opted to flout the courteous rules of entry by assuming the posterior position—meaning his master plan was to emerge face up instead of facedown, doing Queen Elizabeth–style hand-waves and offering high-fives as he sprinted to the finish line. The doctors foiled this fetal strategy with furrowed brows, frantic yells, and a pair of salad tongs, setting the tone for the adventure still to come.
When he was a baby, his fierceness mainly manifested itself via constant physical movement. He was only happy when he was roaming—"Action Jackson" was not a frivolous nickname—whether that meant being constantly carried, attached to a parent's body in a Baby Bjorn, lugged around in a wagon (he hated the indignity of strapped-down stroller incarceration), or "walking" by having Mom, Dad, or any other hale adult grasp his tiny hands and let him put foot to hardwood. He soon tired of that phony perambulating; he was walking on his own by nine months.
Thirteen years haven't diluted Jackson's intensity. As he's matured, he's transitioned his corporal calisthenics into mental ones. Like Walter White in "Breaking Bad," he doesn't believe in half-measures. Our verbal spars are epic; if an argument is broached, I open my Day Runner and make sure I have no appointments or obligations for the rest of the day. I have to lie down a lot.
But his intensity goes beyond circular forensics through bathroom doors (I know I'm not the only parent with such a refuge). He loves just as hard as he works, plays, and fights. He has a soft spot for babies and animals and becomes instantly gentle, patient, and kind in their presence. (Note to self: During our next argument, start acting like a kitten.) He confides in me about his fears and worries—things no child his age should be worrying about—and I see how deeply he thinks and feels. He still hugs me every morning and every night (most of the time), and after every fight, so…lots of hugs!
As Jackson enters this final phase of childhood, moving too close to adulthood for my liking, I'll take the extra grays and hope he maintains that same intensity and passion toward life as he does on the court—as well as keeps taking "smart shots," stays "mentally and physically tough," sports a "great attitude," and remains in "great pursuit of the ball" ("ball" meaning whatever he sets his sights on, as THIS IS ALL METAPHOR, IF I HAVEN'T BEEN CLEAR).
As long as he keeps coming back for a hug once in a while. Happy birthday, sweetheart.
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