I was standing in the hotel lobby with a group of lacrosse players, waiting for the elevator. They had just finished the second of two games that day in almost 100-degree heat at the appropriately named Hotbeds Tournament in Delaware, and their body heat was rolling off them in waves, their uniforms and heads practically steaming.
The doors opened. Three women walked out, and literally started waving their hands in front of their noses. As if their body language wasn’t obvious enough, they looked pointedly at the athletes, loudly declaring, as they scurried by, “smelly, smelly, smelly.”
“Boys, I believe you just got dissed,” I said, stepping onto the elevator with them as the ladies made their escape. They simply laughed, because they smelled bad and they knew it.
There is an unmistakably pungent, almost vinegary smell of hot sweat that defines summer for all lacrosse players and their families, and that includes my own sweet son. Even Tide has its limitations on uniforms, helmets, cleats, and pads that have cooked in summer heat and sweat and fermented inside sports duffel bags. The sounds of the season are the clash of sticks in battle, the grunt of effort, the loud exhortations of coaches, and the cheers of the families on the sidelines.
This week marks the end of summer lacrosse, a big season for Will, with four tournaments and two showcases within a six-week period. It’s been great, but he is tired, and so are we. It takes a lot of planning and coordination, because in the middle of the travel and spectating, there is the reality that we actually have to work for a living and to pay for everything involved with playing — the gear and tournament fees, not to mention hotels and food for a hungry athlete.
I was thinking about the meaning of summer, and especially the sounds and smells of the season, as they have evolved as the kids have grown up. Summer used to mean the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the delicious smells of the concession at the Little League fields. Before he was a lacrosse player, Will played baseball. Bill served on the Cranbury-Plainsboro Little League Board, and from soft spring nights to blazing hot summer days, you’d find our entire family on the bleachers, happily munching concession food and cheering for the team.
Summer used to mean the caw of seagulls at the shore, the pounding of surf, the aroma of saltwater taffy and cotton candy on the boardwalk, and the coconut scent of suntan lotion. I’d like to think it still does, but I personally have not made it to the shore once this summer — Vermont, Massachusetts, Maryland, Pennsylvania, Delaware — practically the entire eastern seaboard defined by lacrosse, yes; Belmar, Point Pleasant, LBI, Cape May, no, not yet, but there’s still time.
Summer also used to mean the swoosh and rattle of the roller coasters at Great Adventure, the screams of frightened delight, the loud, barking invitations from the game hawkers. It was the hot, sticky goodness of funnel cake, and the cold rainbow sweet of Italian ice. We used to get season passes every year, starting with the opening days in spring, mindful not to lose any opportunity to jump in ahead of the crowds and get our money’s worth.
Summer would linger on into fall at Great Adventure, with Fright Fest at Halloween, one of my favorite traditions at one of my favorite times of the year. And yet, we have not been to Great Adventure or even Hershey at all so far, and it seems that we’ve aged out of this one too, another of our big summer traditions.
Going back even further in time, summer used to mean the splash of the water slide and the boing of the diving board at WaterWorks in West Windsor. It used to mean the “pfft” of the whiffle bat during the pickup games on the grass, the smell of chlorine, both in the air and on our clothes and hair, the warm, delicious aroma of french fries from the concession, where you would have to bounce from one foot to the other on the hot pavement as you waited in line with dripping children.
Will was so small in those days, that I had to hold him up to the camera for his picture. He is a small blob of a cute human being on his photo ID, and of course, I have saved all of those season passes, souvenirs of childhood summers and days long past.
From these waning days of July, we will move into August with a blur. It used to be the slowest month of the year, the one that would never end, that used to be marked by the dreaded whines of “I’m bored, there’s nothing to do,” followed by the corollary, “you better find something to do or I’ll give you something to do.” Now there’s no time to be bored; the dog days of summer are punctuated by travel and back-to-school preps, including the mad dash to Barnes and Noble to pick up the summer reading that hasn’t been done.
This month used to include the smell of freshly sharpened pencils, but who uses pencils these days? Will even likes to do his math in pen. For me, however, it is still one of my great pleasures in life to sniff a new pencil and open a new book or notebook and take in that new book scent. Opening a laptop or iPad just isn’t the same.
This is not an ode to summer’s end. We still have one glorious month left, and I plan to take advantage of every moment. Especially now that lacrosse is over (until fall lacrosse begins) and those smells, at least, will fade with the season.
