I Used to Love This Game

I Love This Game!

How frustrating must it be for a parent who was an adequate, at best, athlete in their own glory days to watch their own children playing the sport that they themselves held high aspirations for. It must be somewhat troubling for them to have to live vicariously even though that child may not have any similar aspirations, let alone any drive to even want to play the game.

A friend of mine who is a fifth grade teacher was telling me about her day last week. It had started out especially rough for her when one of her students was in near hysterics at the beginning of the day. It seems that he’d given up 5 runs in his game the previous evening and the coach ended up telling him that he was cutting him from the team and furthermore that he’d never play baseball again if he (the coach) had anything to do with it. Now I don’t know which is worse—that this piece of shit is coaching fifth graders or that this piece of shit is the kid’s father (and when I say piece of shit, I mean it as sincerely as possible). To make matters worse when my friend called the boy’s mother to inform her of the problem, the mother simply replied, “Oh, he’s still upset about that?”


It’s completely normal to want our kids to succeed. It’s probably even normal for parents to wish for our kids to achieve greatness in their lives. The anomaly, however, occurs when a parent’s own frustration with their own obscurity is transferred to the extent that a parent drives their children with the intensity of a wolverine on crack and a double shot of espresso.

As a society we’re arguably as responsible as some of the parents here. We worship athletes with a reverence usually reserved for our Gods, pay them more than corporate CEOs and allow them to act like spoiled, insecure little divas—and we don’t have a problem with that. Sure, we get a little upset when they have their run-ins with the law. But even then we don’t care as long as they’re allowed to play for our teams before they accept their punishment.

I have a son who has a basic talent for the game of futbol, and there have been times when I have been just as guilty at the sort of behavior usually reserved for a rabid dog in August. Luckily for me, however, I have a wife that’s not afraid to let me know when I’m acting like an asshole. I realize as I’m writing this that I’m addressing myself as well.

Sports are games kids, and as such deserve the kind of behavior one generally exhibits when playing a marathon session of monopoly. Yes, it’s okay to get frustrated but remember, there are times when even the $100 million man doesn’t get a hit. Our own frustration shouldn’t be transferred to our kids, ‘cause you know what . . . to them it’s still a game, not a career choice, and games are supposed to be fun.

When it all comes down to, it’s not the leisurely catch in the back yard they’re gonna remember when they get older. It’s you acting like an asshole when they lose the big game or don’t perform at the level expected. Most kids, when asked, will say that the strongest person they know is their father or that their heroes are their parents—be that! If not, sooner or later they’ll forget when the game was fun and end up frustrated adults who engage in fisticuffs over a pastime that can, and should, be a beautiful part of their past, present, or perhaps their future, if that’s the road they choose to follow and not the one that you’re trying to pave for them.


Note: Because he far exceeds the necessary requirements, the coach/father noted in today’s entry wins the Extra Special/Suplemental dumb ass of the day award for far exceeding the usual dumb ass standards!! Congratulations Dumb Ass!!