Hobbyless and proud of it

It's one of the more charming insults my children use to describe unimaginative colleagues: hobbyless. A hobbyless person is someone who is not really interested in anything or is simply bored. This is not without a certain irony, as nowadays «hobby» is associated more with origami courses and stamp collecting. The prestigious children, on the other hand, are in a football club or do martial arts, which sounds less like a hobby and more like a career.

My children had hobbies that never became more than that: hobbies that they eventually gave up again. But they were never without a hobby for long enough for me to worry. But then my son got his first smartphone and soon he was only interested in it and otherwise drifted along hobbyless. I was slightly worried, especially as puberty was also starting to set in.

There's nothing better for puberty than a passion that also provides structure.

Growing up in a women's home as a passion that also provides structure, I know little about what it means for a boy to grow into a man. I know that boys need guidance and look for figures with whom they can identify or from whom they can distance themselves. But I also know that as a mother, I'm unlikely to be an option.

With painful memories of my own puberty, I only know this much: finding your place in society can be difficult when all your bodily functions suddenly go haywire. Puberty seemed to me as if I had previously been pedalling a tricycle and suddenly I was driving a sports car at full speed on a racetrack. I probably have my own hobbies to thank for the fact that I never spun out in the bends.

Basketball as a crash barrier

So when my son approached me about a year and a half ago with the desire for a new hobby, I was thrilled. Not only had he taken matters into his own hands, but he even considered a sport that I had played passionately as a student and still enjoy playing: Basketball.

The chosen club also turned out to be a stroke of luck. It took my son almost a year to learn the basics, but then he caught the bug. He goes to every training session, practises in the courtyard on free afternoons and only talks about basketball: the boy has discovered his first passion.

I don't know whether it has to do with puberty, but it certainly has to do with his coaching team. They all come from Serbia, are very committed and offer him exactly what a boy of his age needs: they are strict but fair, demand a lot and judge fairly. The individual counts less than the team, no matter how good they are, but everyone gets their chance if they make an effort. Never before have I seen my son put so much effort into something.

Since then, I've been more relaxed about his puberty. After all, there is no better insurance against accidents on the racetrack than a passion that also provides structure. And I can go to his matches. Perhaps a little hobbyless, but motherly pride can do anything.