By Last spring, my son was at soccer practice on a Friday night after school. The coaches—of which I was one—divided the kids up into two lines to teach them how to pass the ball to each other and then run to a spot near the goal to shoot and score. The drill required the passer to call out the other kids name to get them to run towards the goal to receive the ball.
This unlocked a new stressor for me as a parent.
Stuttering and sports was a part of my childhood that was inseparable. From the football field to the basketball court and the baseball diamond, stuttering served as a fog under which I played each sport. They were both places of escape and where I was on guard for moments like this one for my son. Calling out names, plays, and warnings while performing impeded my ability to react with natural athleticism. I always had to think whether I was going to be able to say what I needed to say.
I froze each time his turn came up. He stuttered through the names, kicked the ball, and successfully completed the drill several times. I watched intently to see what he did. There was a slight hesitation, but I took it to be him trying to figure out the sequence of the drill—say the kids name, kick the ball, and run to shoot on goal.
This was another fear that was mine, not his. That is what I thought about for a few days after—giving him the opportunity to adapt to situations as he naturally would and continues to do. Sure, I don’t truly know how he felt or processed this moment, but he kept playing and continued showing his outgoing personality in practice.
Every Waking Moment 