It Hurts a Mom to Watch Kids Learn Hard Lessons of Competition

She is taller than I am now but still a wisp of a girl, with long legs that seem to dangle from beneath her uniform and arms that look like rubber bands when they reach out to snag a pass or pump the basketball up court.

But she is strong and quick and smart. And she can hold her own on the basketball court, amid the rough-and-tumble of bigger girls, who seem to me all muscle and girth.

At least that is what I tell myself, as I sit in the stands and cheer for my daughter, who is playing her first high school basketball game.

I watch as she fights through the crowd for a rebound, then crashes hard to the gymnasium floor. She passes the ball up to a teammate, and her team takes off down the court to score.

But my daughter lies still, sprawled on the floor, clutching her ankle and writhing in pain.

“Are you OK?” the referee asks. Fighting back tears, she shakes her head, then looks over at the crowd, at me.

And I am seized with the urge to run onto the court, to crouch down and hug her and murmur the phrase she has heard through tears time and again: “Show Mommy where it hurts.”

But, of course, I do not. Instead, I sit clutching the edge of my seat, praying that she is not badly injured. And willing myself to remain in place, lest I add embarrassment to her pain.

Her coach strides over, pulls my daughter to her feet and helps her limp off the court to the bench. The crowd claps and cheers, as it does whenever an injured player manages to hobble away under her own steam.

And it dawns on me as, heart in my throat, I join in the crowd’s applause, that she is no longer my little girl, playing park league ball for the fun of it all.

She has grown beyond that, has come into her own. And as the trainer binds her ankle and sends her back into the game, I bite my tongue and cheer her on. She is limping, and it hurts me to watch her. But I feel pride mixed with the pain.

*

It is a rule in our house, like brushing your teeth in the morning or doing your homework before you watch TV: Find a sport you like and play it.

My mission is twofold: I want my three daughters to take pride in their bodies as physical instruments, not objects of beauty. I wish for them the same sort of confidence in their physical skills that boys have gained through generations of play.

And I believe that some lessons about life are best learned on the playing field: Hustle and grit count as much as talent. Discipline and practice pay dividends. Teamwork wins games, and poor sports are losers, no matter the score.

There are no superstars among my daughters, but they play hard and fair and enjoy the games. I figured sports would make them tougher, stronger, more resilient. And as I watch them now, I know it has.

They’ve learned you don’t cry when you blow a good shot. You can’t whine when someone steals the ball. That it’s OK, when pushed, to push back. That you have to get back up every time you fall.

But what I didn’t anticipate was that their sporting life would force changes in me, as well. . . . That I would learn to track their growth not just by the cleats and jerseys they outgrew, but by the injuries they suffered.

I have realized only over time that raising athletes toughens a parent as well; teaches us to back off, to let go . . . to accept that all of life’s bumps and bruises aren’t meant to be healed by a mother’s touch.

*

I heard it first--the “clunk” of two heads banging together. And when I looked up at the soccer field, it was my 8-year-old on the ground, utterly still.

I know the rules--no parents allowed on the field--so I hesitated for just a moment . . . though it felt like an eternity. And every story I’d ever heard flashed through my head, of young athletes maimed or killed in clumsy pursuit of victory.

Before anyone could stop me, I had run across the field, hoisted her up and carried her back to my sideline seat.

“How many fingers do you see?” I asked, waving my hand in front of her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, blinking back tears, then stared at me and answered correctly.

Someone handed me ice, and I pressed it against the spot on her head, which was beginning to swell and turn blue.

“You want to go home?” I asked. “Maybe we should stop at the doctor’s, get it X-rayed.”

She pulled away, wiped her eyes and shook her head.

“I wanna go back in,” she said impatiently. “Coach Tony, can I go back in fourth quarter?”

The coach knelt down, inspected her bruise, had her bend, stretch, run in place. “Put the ice back on,” he said, “and we’ll see.”

“Don’t worry, she’s tough,” the mother next to me whispered. Her husband nodded reassuringly. But I’d seen the terror in their eyes when we heard the crash, before we knew which child was down.

“Tough,” I remind myself, as I watch my baby girl run out and take her place on the field with her team. Tough, like her sisters. And brave. And strong.

Will it ever seem so to me, I wonder. Is it only through the eyes of their mother that my girls still seem so vulnerable, so small?

*

Sandy Banks’ column runs Sundays and Tuesdays. E-mail her at sandy.banks@latimes.com.