Recognizing The Moment

What a car ride home taught me about being present.

This past weekend, Rocco's team played in the Oregon State Cup semifinal. After tying the game midway through the second half, they gave up a heartbreaking late winner on a free kick. Despite leaving their hearts on the field, they came up short.

As the referee signaled the end, I noticed Rocco lingering near his goal box, hands on his hips, locked in stillness as the other players shook hands and slowly drifted away. He stood there for what felt like hours. I could almost see the wheels turning, replaying the game, owning the weight of the result.

He’s always the last one off the field. True to form, long after his teammates had loaded up and started their journeys home, he stayed behind to help his coach carry the equipment. Eventually, I decided to meet him halfway, part dad, part chauffeur, mostly just wanting to tell him how proud I was.

He's so grateful for his teammates. I'm beyond proud of his impact on the people around him.

As we walked off together and began our four-hour trip home, disappointment slowly gave way to reflection. The conversation moved from his frustration with the game result to how much he loves his teammates and how deep his friendships are with his school friends. The whole time, he very intentionally expressed gratitude for those relationships.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, he said something so profound it took me a bit by surprise:

"Dad, it’s weird. You never realize you're making memories until the moment's over."

Locked in and ready to go.

I paused as I processed the moment. That simple statement carried such weight. At 17, he had articulated something I feel that I’m just beginning to understand in my 50s. So often, life’s moments, even the tough or bittersweet ones, pass us by in real time. It’s only in the rearview mirror that we understand their meaning. Only later do they take shape as the stories and memories that define us.

Over the years, I’ve spent countless hours in the car with my boys. Early morning drives to tournaments with the sun barely up. Quiet rides home after tough losses. Long stretches filled with music, jokes, or simply comfortable silence. Sometimes, the whole family is together, sometimes just me and one of the boys, no distractions, no agenda, just space.

Those drives have always felt a little sacred. On the surface, they’re nothing remarkable, just long stretches of road, another weekend spent going from one place to the next. But maybe that’s exactly why they matter. Out there, away from the noise of everyday life, is where the real conversations have often happened. And sometimes, there haven’t been words at all, just quiet. Somehow, both have always felt meaningful.

I had the opportunity to join Rocco and his team at the Players Showcase in Las Vegas in March. Just one of many memories I'll cherish forever.

I’m aware these moments are becoming less and less as time passes. The gear bags, postgame talks, and shared playlists will fade into the rearview mirror someday. But right now, they’re still here. And I’m learning, slowly, sometimes stubbornly, to be more present for them.

I don’t want to realize later that these were the good moments. I want to know it now while still in the driver’s seat.

Reflecting on that moment back at the field. Rocco had stayed behind. While everyone else moved on quickly, he stood there, hands on hips, taking it all in. He wasn’t rushing past the moment, he was letting himself feel it.

I didn’t think much of it at the time.

But somewhere in the middle of that long drive, in between laughs, honest reflection, and plans for what’s next, it hit me:

I recognized the moment as it was playing out.