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.
