The Moments I Didn’t Know I Was Missing

Last night, I sat in the stands watching Carter play football. He’s never played before, yet he was doing so well. I found myself smiling, cheering, enjoying watching him figure it out.

And then came the nostalgia.

My boys played sports for most of their childhood — football, soccer, T-ball, baseball. For years, there was always a practice to get to, a uniform to find, a game to attend, snacks to remember. I loved watching them play, though I didn’t always know how to be fully present in it.

Zander (#64) with his teammates in 2011.

When I remember those years, there is a heaviness attached to them.

Tensions between their father and me often followed me to the field. His presence could change the atmosphere before a game even began. Comments and attitudes that no one else noticed but me left me angry, frustrated, and on edge. More often than not, I arrived already braced.

I would sit through the games carrying all that tension, then go home still carrying it. For a long time, that became part of how I remembered those years.

But this morning, driving to work, I intentionally played Kenny Chesney’s The Boys of Fall. It was a song from that season of our lives—one I had completely forgotten about until it resurfaced the night before.

A few notes in, I started crying.

At first, I wasn’t even sure why. Then I realized I wasn’t only missing those days.

I was grieving the moments I had been present for, but hadn’t truly been present in.

My boys were right there in front of me—running onto fields in their uniforms, looking to see who was watching, growing up one season at a time.

And so often, my heart and mind were somewhere else. In anger. In resentment. In bitterness. In whatever had already happened or whatever I was bracing for next. Back then, I didn’t know how to set any of it down, even for a little while.

Time has given me a different perspective.

I didn’t know how to keep the circumstances from robbing me of the moment.

That’s the realization that made me cry, because I can’t go back and sit in those stands again. I can’t tell that younger version of myself: The unease will still be there later—this moment won’t. So watch them play. Soak it in. Cheer them on. Be here.

How could I have known? I didn’t.

I simply believed there would always be another season. Another game. Another Saturday. And before you know it, the season that once felt endless slipped away.

And maybe that’s one of the painful gifts of hindsight. Sometimes we look back and realize we were living some of the best moments of our lives while consumed by things that would eventually become little more than background noise.

The circumstances felt enormous, yet the moments felt ordinary.

Years later, I know which ones were actually precious.

Last night, I found myself sitting on bleachers again. Different field. Different boy. Different season of my life.

And maybe that’s why the memory came back now.

Not so I can punish myself for the moments I missed.

But so I don’t miss this one.