Feeling My Age

Every day I look in the mirror. Thanks to a combination of time, a high-stress job, and said teenage daughter; there's a little less black on top of my head and a little less brown in my beard. And no matter how many times I change the lights above the bathroom mirror, there's a little more gray there every day. The lines around my mouth and eyes are a little more pronounced. There's a little more of my grandfather in the mirror when I look, too. Not my dad; instead of turning his hair gray, apparently us kids just made him tear it out. But every time I look it's the same story.
I look old.
Tomorrow afternoon, my daughter will (hopefully) play in her first junior high basketball game. She's an 8th grader; 13 years old this year. In 9 months, she'll be a high school Freshman.
I feel old.
I regret that I'm not going to be able to make it to all of her ball games. Between my working nights and my wife working a few towns over (which requires taking our one vehicle), it's a bit tricky to get me to any of the out of town matches. But every home game, I'll be there in the stands. I will say that it helps that she's on the JV team, which means she'll play at 4:00 most days instead of "maybe around 6, depending on if the early games run late, or finish early."
I don't know if she'll get to play. I don't even know if she's any good; at a small school like ours, every warm body that tries out for the team gets on -- playing time is a different story, but everybody makes the team. But I don't care. I will be there, in the stands; every chance I get.
And I will try not to be *that* dad. You know the one I mean. The dad who, even at a Junior High Junior Varsity game is riding the refs and the coach like he's at an NBA game. The dad who jockeys for more playing time for his kid, regardless of how good the kid actually is. The dad who "encourages" by doing the coach's job for them; who berates his kid for every missed shot and errant pass instead of asking "Did Coach tell you what you need to do to get better?" and "You gonna do it?" then leaving it at that.
My daughter could practice her jump shot from now until she graduates, and she still probably won't be the next Jackie Stiles (the former WNBA All-Star who played basketball in our league when I was in high school). And as far as I'm concerned, that's fine. She doesn't need to be. As long as she's having fun, keeping her grades up, and doing the best she can every time she steps on the court, there will be a proud old man sitting up in the stands.