Sunday, September 30, 2012

Confessions of a Sideline Parent, or "Pass it to Dakota!"

I’m not a crazy sports parent.  I’m not that dad climbing on the dugout, howling at the ump for justice.  Don’t call me the father who coaches his child’s every movement from his deluxe fold-up sideline recliner despite a soccer knowledge consisting of “foot good, hand bad.”  And in no way am I part of that dual-headed parenting beast, the mom-dad lacrosse combo that scolds any teammate who stands in the way of family greatness by screeching, “Pass it to Dakota!”  I’m not that guy.  Well, at least not anymore. 
Sure, I’ve said things – we’ve all said things, but I was only practicing “active parenting.”  Screaming, “Hey kid, take that piano off your back!” or “Mr. Referee, your incompetence is outdone only by your ineptitude,” or “You call that goal keeping?” was my way of letting everyone know I was paying attention.  Granted, I might have chosen a more elegant way of speaking.  But that’s in the past.
I didn’t learn those things from my parents.  Not much of an athlete growing up, I’d like to think the solo bike rides to my soccer and baseball games had more to do with the lingering effects of the OPEC oil embargo than my parents’ secret shame at Timmy’s two left feet.  And when my parents did watch, they never said a word.
When I was twelve, I started playing junior tennis, finally experiencing the power of direct parent participation.  My mom would drive me back and forth across the greater New York area to tournaments, resigned to the fact my Schwinn would only get me so far.  At one match, under an enormous bubble roof in Queens, my mom parked the car and wished me luck.  I arrived at the court and met my opponent.  His name was Barry Stambler, a boy I’d played a few times before.
I was no Harold Solomon, but I’d won a few matches in my day and had beaten Barry weeks prior.  But today Barry brought a secret weapon – his mother.  Mrs. Stambler settled in courtside as we began.  She sat mute and motionless, save for her crocheting Barry’s victory cardigan as her son made swift business of me.  She might as well have been yodeling, “We are the Champions” as Barry picked me apart, game by game, his cross-court groundstrokes combining with the soft clicking of his mom’s knitting needles to deliver a  prompt and humiliating defeat.  With each ace I wondered where my mom was, hoping the Stamblers would at least get me to the bus station.
Before I had kids, I’d laugh at the nutty dads who made the game all about themselves.  In high school, it was normal to witness men in pinstripe suits throw haymakers at one another during their sons’ heated lacrosse rivalries.  “Who does those things?” I’d ask myself. 
Pretty soon out of the parenting gates, I’d become the thing I mocked.  I once demanded a skating instructor move my son from the novice Brown Bears to the more advanced Golden Geese mid lesson, shouting at the teenage girl trying to corral dozens of confused children that she’d misjudged my son’s talent.  “He deserves to be with the Geese!  He’s a goose, not a bear!  He’s a goose!”  He was five years old and had never worn skates until that morning.
My parenting nadir came at a 3rd grade soccer tournament as my son’s team played for the title.  I was relentless, providing constant “encouragement” to his teammates and launching a steady diatribe against the opponents.  “Hey, number fifteen – watch the elbows!” I said to a blonde-haired boy on the other team.  He was eight, and I, a grown man with a wife, two kids, a driver’s license, receding hairline and a college degree, pointed at him, telling him to “Watch it.” 
“You’re unbelievable,” another dad said to me.  I know!  I was sure he meant my shrewd analysis of this boy’s unchecked aggression was to be applauded.  Afterwards, at the trophy ceremony, I wondered why no other parents would make eye contact.  Did I have a problem?
This change from shrieking monster to normal human father was gradual.  A few years ago, my son’s middle school basketball team was locked in seesaw battle with a rival, and the gym was packed.  A lone voice rang out above the squeaking sneakers and cheerleaders, coming from an unnaturally tanned gentleman seated next to either his college-age daughter or second wife.  He ranted non-stop about the quality of refereeing.  “You are horrible!  That wasn’t traveling!  Who taught you the rules?  You’re ruining the game!”  This went on, at full volume, for most of the first half.  Is that what I sounded like?
It takes a boor to know a boor, so I stood up and said, “They’re doing the best they can.  Please stop,” prompting him to shout back, “If you don’t like it, then don’t listen!” 
I responded, “That’s impossible – we can all hear you!”  At this point, my wife tried to disappear, my daughter began crying, and Mr. Tanorama’s second wife started wondering if the daddy issues that led her here may have taken a sharp turn from Easy Street to Koo Koo Town.  Mr. Tanorama never said another word. 
But the real epiphany came while watching lots of indoor soccer.  There are few environments less conducive to positive parent participation than an indoor soccer complex.  It’s like a petri dish of bad parent bacteria, moms screaming at grandmas about sportsmanship, dads cursing at pre-teen strangers to make better passes, and the kids completely oblivious, their parents’ vitriol blocked by eight feet of thick Plexiglas.  Clusters of adults shouting at a wall of glass demanding immediate change.  They might as well be at home yelling at C-SPAN. 
The truth is that now my sports parenting outside voice is different than my inside voice.  On the surface, I’m calm and reserved - one might even call me pensive and aloof.  But inside I’m a stewing vat of put-downs and zingers that would ruin a 7th grade girls’ soccer game in seconds.  But I keep silent and let those moments pass, hiding behind my camera or a cup of coffee, keeping my former Ugly Sideline Dad mask hidden.
It’s better this way.  Parents make friendly chit chat about politics or religion, I retain some sense of personal decency, and everyone drives home happy, win or lose.  Besides, this is all about the kids, right?  It’s all about the kids.