Sometimes, the colors associated with sports teams or school rivalries carry deeper meanings. I learned this lesson one hectic day at Boston Logan Airport while waiting for our flight home.
As I was happily browsing for Red Sox margarita glasses, my 5-year-old son, Jake, approached me with an exasperated look on his face. “Mom!” he shouted, eyeing the Red Sox merchandise. “I’m so done with Red Sox!”
I felt as if he had just declared that he no longer liked pizza or ice cream. “What do you mean?” I asked, bewildered. “What do you really want?”
With his hands firmly on his hips, he replied, “I need a Yankees hat!”
Even though we live in Colorado, my family back in New England had always been generous with their gifts of Red Sox apparel for the boys—hats, mitts, and matching shirts in red, blue, and grey. I had overlooked the fact that Jake often avoided wearing those items, preferring to let his identical twin brother, Max, take the spotlight in their coordinating outfits.
When they were born, Jake and Max looked so similar that I nearly panicked when the nurse removed their hospital bracelets. How would I ever tell them apart? So, I started color-coding their outfits: Max wore red or orange, while Jake was in blue or green. With their strawberry blond hair and blue eyes, the color scheme made it easier for everyone to distinguish them. As they grew, they kept to their assigned colors.
At preschool, the other kids would call them “JakeMax,” which I thought was charming. They never seemed to mind, but I now realize that it must have been frustrating for them to be so frequently lumped together.
As they got older, a favorite aunt introduced them to a checker game featuring mini Red Sox and Yankees helmets. I didn’t think much of it when Jake often played as the blue and white team. But here he was, asking for a Yankees hat in the middle of a Red Sox store.
I felt the eyes of every employee and shopper on us, as if we had accidentally set off a fire alarm. I put down the margarita glasses, realizing that my son was openly criticizing my beloved team. My heart raced as I imagined tackling him and covering his mouth to prevent more embarrassment.
Instead, I knelt down and gently pleaded, “Sweetheart, we’re Red Sox fans, remember?”
“No, Mommy,” he insisted, “I love the Yankees!”
A chuckle erupted from a nearby shopper. Just then, Max ran over, proudly wearing his Red Sox cap. The atmosphere shifted.
“Are they twins?” the clerk asked, intrigued. “How do you tell them apart?”
“One’s a Sox fan and the other roots for the Yankees? That’s just wrong,” the chuckler chimed in.
Looking at Max in his red shirt and Jake in blue, I suddenly understood. This wasn’t just about baseball or team loyalties. This was about Jake carving out his own identity.
In my efforts to make things easier for everyone else, I hadn’t considered how it felt for them to be referred to as “JakeMax” or to frequently be called by the wrong name. Jake didn’t want to wear Red Sox gear because he needed to stand out from his brother.
I swallowed my pride about the Yankees and later bought him the hat he wanted at Target. I also made an effort to arrange individual playdates and brainstormed new ways for friends and family to distinguish them—like noting that Max was slightly taller and Jake’s eyes were a little closer together.
In the end, I even supported Jake’s decision to root for the Jets over the Patriots (he saved up for a green Jets sweatshirt that he wears constantly). No one has had the heart to tell him that in New York, Yankees fans typically support the Giants, not the Jets. But even if we did, I know he would just say, “There’s a bit of red in those Giants uniforms, and that’s Max’s color.”
In conclusion, this experience has taught me that as much as we want to keep our little ones in neat boxes, they are their own individuals with their unique preferences. It’s a reminder that embracing their choices—no matter how different they may be from our own—can foster their sense of self and identity.
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