One of my favorite familial stories is from the first week of my little brother Dave's life.
A little background to provide context for the story:
I am 3rd of four children. My older brother and sister were adopted as infants, as my parents (for whatever reason) weren't getting pregnant. True to form, my parents weren't necessarily worried about getting pregnant, but knew they wanted a family, so they applied to adopt and adopt they did, twice. A few years later, they got pregnant with me, another five years later, with David. At this point my Mom was a stay-at-home Mom (she taught high school and adult education before we were born and once we were school-age; she also taught piano lessons and made profits buying and selling furniture while she was home with us). My father was a high school gym teacher and football coach. His teaching tenure ended at Central where he retired in the 90s. Did I mention both were well liked and respected teachers? My Dad was particularly beloved as a high school football coach.
Well, sometime in the early eighties, during September in Minnesota, my Mother went into early labor. It was a Sunday night, around 11pm. My parents went to the hospital, and at 1:15am she gave birth to David Paul Strand, 2 months premature; 4 pounds, 2 ounces. My Dad held David briefly before the nurses came to put him in an incubator because he was so small (David, not my Dad). My Dad distinctly remembers thinking David was the size of a nice walleye (being an avid fisherman, the weight of things often relates to fish - I imagine many men from Minnesota can relate). David was so small, he fit completely in my Dad's large hands.
Though the walleye-weight didn't leave my Dad's mind, he also worried that David was too small and premature. My Mom was (and still is) a big advocate of breast feeding, so she tried to breast feed David immediately, but he wouldn't eat, so they started pumping milk and feeding it to him via bottle.
My father skipped school that whole week, but went to football practice. I suppose football practice reinvigorated him. Also, I suspect he went because his team had a game against one of their biggest local rivals (a stronger, better team), Hibbing, and because my Dad loved coaching so much. So, he would take breaks from sitting with David and my Mom, who were still in the hospital, to coach football practice.
But still, he had no idea what the players were talking about or planning regarding his newborn son. You see, everybody knew about David and how worried my Dad was that he was going to be okay because he was so small and premature.
Friday night was game night and Central was playing Hibbing (the better-ranked team), at the big, outdoor, city-wide high school stadium. My Dad's team, Central, won the coin toss, so they received and scored within the first three minutes. After scoring, senior Jay Weiderman came to the sideline and told my Dad, "That one was for little David." Throughout the game, players would come to my Dad on the sideline with words of dedication and encouragement: Rocky Erickson said, "Relax, Coach, we're having a good time out there." During the third quarter, defensive end Bobby Storm said, "Don't worry Coach, they're not coming around my end."
Central won sixteen to nothing. Sixteen to ZERO!
At the end of the games, the players hang out a little, then pile onto the bus to go back to their home school. The coaches are typically last on the bus, as they make sure all the equipment got loaded and nothing's left behind.
As my Dad walked to the bus with his offensive coach Kestler, he noticed the bus was sort of rocking. He hears three rhythmic words in conjunction with the guys stomping their feet and pounding their fists against the bus seats. It takes him a moment and a few feet to realize what his players are chanting...
"David! Paul! Strand!"
"David! Paul! Strand!"
"David! Paul! Strand!"
My dad slowly stepped onto the bus, realizing all those players were chanting his newborn son's name; dedicating their victorious game to his son... tears streamed down his face.
Afterward, he drove to the hospital to see David. By this time, David was strong enough that my Dad could hold him. He held little David in his arms and told him the whole story of the game and how the players dedicated the game to him. For three weeks David was in the hospital, and my Dad would go there several times a day to bring him breast-milk, and to hold and see him. (My Mom did too, but this is really a story about a father, his son and his team.) Every Friday my father would visit David after his football games to tell him about the games.
That was almost thirty years ago now, and still, the memory is vivid for my Dad. Those players will always be remembered as being a part of dedicating their game to David Paul Strand. It didn't matter that Hibbing was the better team. That night, they weren't. Purpose has a powerful effect that way. So does dedication. Not the state of being dedicated, but having a purpose that is dedicated to something or someone figuratively bigger (since David was literally smaller than...well, everyone), than you, your desires, or even your whole entire football team. In that way purpose and dedication are limitless, timeless and powerful beyond measure.
David is getting married in August. I hope at least one of those players will be at the wedding.
I know I will be. And when I'm sitting in the congregation of the wedding, I'll be thinking...
"David! Paul! Strand!"
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