The knife arrived yesterday and the timing couldn't have been better.
My son's 6th grade football team (11-12 year olds) played for the city championship last night. They went into the game hoping to win a third straight championship and defend their undefeated record of 33-0 over the past three seasons.
This has been a difficult season for our team with several of our best players out of action or playing with injuries, including a broken elbow, a broken foot and a broken arm. In fact, on Friday night at practice, my son broke the middle finger on his left hand. Saturday morning he was in a lot of pain and understandably worried about playing with his injury. But he didn't want to let his team down, so we taped him up and sent him off to the gridiron to join the bravehearts and the walking wounded in what turned out to be an epic defensive struggle. Unfortunately, our boys come out on the loosing end of a 6-0 final.
After the game, we parents told the boys that we couldn't be more proud of all they had accomplished over the past three years. We told them that there was no shame in a 33-1 record and that they should raise their chins and wipe their eyes. But as you can imagine, they found little comfort in our words.
And so it was a blessing to find a box addressed to my son in the mailbox when we returned to our home. I considered holding off on giving it to him, waiting for a better occasion. But I decided that perhaps this token from a stranger might lessen the sting of an otherwise bitter day. I'm glad I made that decision. My son, who had shown very little emotion after the game, became misty eyed when he opened the box and I told him the story behind it's contents.
Gus, I can not find the words to adequately express my gratitude for your kind gesture. I can only promise to pay your kindness forward and offer this picture of one very happy boy.