While Central Park is certainly New York City’s best known patch of greenery, and well deserves its high status, Manhattanites know that there are plenty of smaller, just-as-much-fun parks sprinkled throughout the city. They may not boast the acreage or running space that Central Park does, but most of them contain playgrounds and swing sets that can be transformed into pirate ships, mermaid coves, or whatever its young users desire that day.
Though these areas are frequented by pint sized New Yorkers on a regular basis, especially during the warmer months, earlier this summer I was introduced to a subset of this population that prefers a plain, open field to monkey bars and twisting slides. Sometimes, I observed, mini New Yorkers don’t want to climb or hide. Sometimes, they just want a lawn. Pure, undisturbed grass.
A little boy had darted right past a jungle gym where many of his peers were playing and straight to what was seemingly a familiar spot on a grassy field. Won’t he get bored over there? I thought. Positioning himself directly across the way from his big brother, before I could blink a soccer ball was seamlessly sailing back and forth between the two of them, moving so fast that it took me and other onlookers a moment to process that one of the players was barely five years old.
Giggling but focused, black curls flying and falling into his eyes, this little Beckham-to-be nailed every kick, blocked every pass, and more than once gave his older, taller sibling a challenge as the ball went clear over his head, or through his ankles. Their mother sat on a nearby bench, glancing up every once in a while from her magazine, smiling and occasionally reminding the smaller of the two boys to “take it easy on him, Marco.”
I sat watching this child in awe for over half of an hour, long past the last sips of my iced coffee. I’ve never been a huge soccer fan, but this was impressive.
After some time the boys began complaining of thirst, and ran off with mom trailing behind towards a nearby water fountain. As they ran, their previously nimble lower appendages became tangled, causing our young soccer pro to lose his balance and fall, hard, on his knees to the rocky concrete below.
After watching his athletic skills for a while, part of me had started to forget how young this kid was. However, we were all instantly reminded as his face contorted into that familiar I’m-about-to-scream-so-loudly-they-will-hear-me-in-Staten-Island shape, mouth wide open, waiting for the shriek to arrive from his throat. Here it comes, I thought, wincing in anticipation, watching as his tiny fists clenched. However, his fit was interrupted and halted by an oncoming New Yorker, a girl probably in her late twenties, who had also been watching him play, and had seen the fall as well.
Now, typically, our instinct is to run to the child, prevent the screams, snuggle and coo and show him that it’s not really so bad, take out some fancy band aids and help him back to his feet. Right?
Common people. This is New York. Even I, your sweet core defender, know that we are all of the unspoken understanding that if you fall around here, waiting for someone to come around and pick you up will most likely get you nothing except run over. Of course, there are always kind people around to help you back to your feet, but in order to survive here, we must have the skill of getting ourselves back on solid ground. We expect this of each other, regardless of our willingness to help.
Being five, he was still unaware of this need for toughness (when you’re at knee-level most of the time, its hard to pick up on this sort of thing). But, of course, being the amazing New Yorkers that we are, just at that moment there was someone there to teach him. The aforementioned pretty young lady locked her eyes on his, and before he could make a sound, she held out one finger and silently mouthed the word “no.” Standing a few feet away from him, she stayed upright, not even so much as crouching down. He looked up at the stranger with a similar focus that he had displayed during his hour of soccer. “Come on, you’re okay,” she said, this time loud enough for him to hear.
He issued sort of a gurgled, surprised sound and unclenched his fists. “Come on,” she continued to encourage him, not moving any closer or changing her position. “Get up, it’s okay, you can do it.” The same gurgle came out of him as he pressed his palms to the concrete, relaxed his facial muscles and slowly, slowly rose back to his feet. His teacher smiled at the stunned expression on his small, chubby face. “See?! Good job!” She beamed at him, gave him the thumbs up, exchanged a knowing grin with his mom as if to say “now he knows” and continued on her way. He watched her go until she was out of sight, then got his drink and went back to playing; wiser, stronger, and better equipped to face our city.
Especially in a place like New York, kindness can often come in the form of tough love. How much more effective is it to teach the kid that he is capable of getting back up on his own, than immediately running to do it for him, reinforcing the idea that when you get knocked over, the best thing to do is just…wait? Scream until someone notices you? This city is filled with screaming people, screaming car alarms, jack hammers; cries are doomed to be lost among the chorus.
Rather, from one New Yorker to another…
Brush it off.
You’re okay.
Get up!
