I was brought up on classical music and basketball.
While the two terms may seem random, they actually are related. Just ask my parents.
As oddly paired as sports and music, my parents are perfect for each other. While I may be biased, I have never seen a couple that understand each other as much as they do (although, they'd never admit it). It's not too hard to tell they are still in love.
Mom and Dad are teachers. They take their love of discipline, respect and fairness to a new level when faced with 30 students.
The lessons I learned in childhood begin with memories of my mom playing the piano or my dad cutting down the basketball net after a game he coached.
Growing up, I remember waking up on Saturday mornings to my mother playing her piano. My friends said they would hop out of bed because their favorite cartoon was on, but my sister, and I would listen to the notes echo up the stairs. Sometimes, during infrequent moments of calm, I'd climb under the grand piano. Mom would begin to move her fingers over the keys, the strings would tremble and I'd lay on my back, my feet pressed against the underbelly of the instrument' feeling the sound vibrations through my toes.
My dad is addicted to coaching. If he wasn't at cross-country or baseball practice, he was bound to be in the basketball gym. I was only a few weeks old the first time he brought me to scout a team with him. He'd fill out stats sheets while holding a bottle to my mouth. Despite the roar of the crowd in the tiny gyms, I would fall asleep. By the age of 3, it was natural to play hide-and-seek in the school's bleachers.
As a result, I have a deep respect for the pianists and coaches of the world. Their vocations may be completely different, but both require an intense amount of motivation and practice. I understand the work that goes into keeping a team in shape and making sure a symphony orchestra joins to pull a mess of notes into music.
The appreciation is part of the respect that I give my parents for following through with what they love.
As an attempt to find my own niche, I gave piano lessons a shot, and tried basketball camp. But in the end, broomball is my sport of choice and my sister and I ran to different instruments. While my sister plays a mean violin and I'm a decent cellist, neither of us chose to play for a living -- we have a fear of practice rooms.
Even though I think they were slightly disappointed, my parents never openly begrudged us our lackluster attitude toward their pastimes. In fact, I think they secretly relish keeping something that's just theirs -- a tiny morsel of individuality and freedom left just for them to relish. It's a subtle reminder that Mom and Dad are different puzzle pieces that just happen to fit.
-- Smith is a junior journalism major who hopes to find her niche someday. Send her an e-mail at kimberly.a.smith@ohiou.edu.
17 Archives
Kim Smith
