Mom used to yell during my track meets. Like, really yell. As in, her voice would ride the wind and roar above all others. It’s a gift.
“Go Leslie,” she would scream. “Come on, come on, you got this!”
I was a sprinter. And I’m pretty sure if I would have taken practice time a bit more seriously instead of running to our local burger joint for ice cream, I could have been even better. I mean, I don’t want to toot my own horn or anything, but you’ll still find my name on a school record for the 4x100 meter relay.
But back to Mom and that scream.
“I heard you, Mom” I would chuckle as she met me after each race.
She would smile and prepare to yell again for the next event.
I don’t know if she knows, but hearing her voice was a steady reminder to keep going. It was the extra push I needed to make it to the finish line.
Her cheers always were friendly, never condescending or angry, always encouraging. And I never did tell her how much it meant to me to have her support.
That gift was handed down to me. I’m a yeller. My voice also rides the wind and could definitely rival my mother’s.
“Go Grace, go!” I screamed last week during a breakaway run to the soccer goal. My girl’s score tied the game. And you better believe my voice was ready. I jumped. I yelled. I clapped. I peed my pants ... just a little.
My mom would be so proud.
“Did you hear me cheering for you, Grace?” I asked her after their win.
“Yep,” she smiled. “I heard you.”
And I’m just pretty sure it meant something to her, too.