So my middle son, the athletic one, the Gemini prone to whiplash-fast mood swings, is 13 today. Something about that number echoes with doom--parents beware, here comes the pain, etc. But it's not as bad as all that; in fact, I'll take 13 over 12 any day. In the last few weeks, my boy has moved beyond most of his seriously obnoxious behaviors (eye rolling, sighing, tantrums of epic proportions over seemingly minor concerns like a cheerful morning greeting). He's almost human these days, almost civilized. He may live to see 14.

Part of his celebration included amassing a gang of several other teenage boys from his various soccer teams and doing what boys do best: goofing around. Soccer game on tv, quickly abandoned for sweaty backyard soccer in the heat of the day, then a lovely rousing round of hide-and-go-seek (during which I hid in my room and read), all lavishly supplied with beverages and delivery pizza and Doritos.

The best part, though, was the pick-up soccer games at the local high school, a summer tradition for players present and past. Watching the younger boys take the field with the older high school- and college-age players, I realized how brave my boy and his friends are, how beautifully confident and willing to take a challenge. Younger by at least two years than the others and standing at least a head shorter than all of them, these new teenagers boldly played the beautiful game with grace and skill, doggedly keeping pace with the game. Of course the more seasoned and developed seniors outstripped the youngsters when they truly turned on the juice, but the kids made some sweet plays of their own.

I got special joy out of watching the whole series of 10-minute gamelets unfold because the young men (and women) were almost all former students of mine--some dating back to my 8th grade class in 2000. My nostalgia for my sweetly awkward middle school darlings combined with my pride in the adults those kids have become added a special glow of...something...to my enjoyment of the athleticism on display. And the greetings from those sweaty guys--now with beards and unbelievably grown-up faces--after the games let me know they were glad to see me, too. It was well worth the din (and smell) of eight teenagers crammed into my truck on the way home.