Third in a series.  I acknowledge that I’m generalizing, focusing on the 51% of parent, coach, and youth sport activity that I believe constitutes mania.  There are lots of parents who sit mostly in silence and show excellent sportsmanship on the sidelines, cheering excellent play, irrespective of the color of the jerseys.  The same parents praise their children’s effort whether they fill up the stat sheet or not and offer them constructive criticism in a private, caring way.  And there are excellent coaches who focus on the forest that is their athletes’ long-term health and development.

But too often it seems, those coaches and parents seem to be overshadowed by the coaches and parents that become unhinged by single-minded competitiveness.  I’m not sure why I have let those coaches and parents ruffle my feathers so much. 

The end result of the ruffling is that for all practical purposes I have opted out of youth sports.  To L’s dismay at times, I’ve chosen not to coach, I have purposely not pushed my daughters, and I watch their games passively, alienated from the most anxious and vocal parents. 

Yes, I have considered that I’m too analytical, that I should just chill, and go along to get along, but I accept that I often think about things differently.

Youth sports, like the arts, like schooling, like religious youth groups, have so much potential for good, but too often, coaches and parents focus too exclusively on winning and squander that potential.  When children take the field, too many parents think of them as extensions of themselves.  If their kid plays poorly it reflects negatively on them; if they excel, it reflects positively on them.

Sure, it’s possible I overcompensated, but that’s water under the bridge.  Maybe I should have had higher expectations and worked with A and J one-on-one more.  If I had, maybe they would have experienced even more success and enjoyed playing even more.  I guess I was waiting for them to take the initiative to practice by themselves or with friends outside of the schedules predetermined by adults, or to ask me for help, or both.

Outside of school, my friends and I played all the time without having to because we wanted to.  Rain, snow, searing heat, the setting sun, nothing stopped us.  We’d work on our putting and jump shots under a flood light and the rain meant after school football would be that much more fun.  I routinely played 9 or 18 holes of golf by myself.  If my daughters are representative of today’s generation of young athletes, they play when they’re told to, which begs the question, do they play mostly as a result of adult expectations?  And would the youngest athletes have even more fun if left to their own devices?

Richard Williams, father of Venus and Serena Williams, is an odd bird, but he did something as a tennis coach of his young daugthers that I think was brilliant.  Once a year he’d take their racquets and hide them in a closest in their Compton, CA house to see how they’d react.  He’d do this as a check on whether they were developing an intrinsic love of the game.  Apparently, they’d take one day off and then begin tearing the house apart on day two. 

What percentage of our young athletes is developing a genuine fondness for their activities of choice?  What would happen if the adults didn’t organize their leagues, didn’t unfurl their lawn chairs on the sidelines of their games, didn’t watch their every move two nights a week, and didn’t affirm their every effort?  

Part two in a series.  Unless we attempt to understand why parents sign up their four year olds for organized soccer, we’ll never fundamentally reform youth sports. 

I may have stumbled upon the beginning of an answer a year later when I was teaching A to ride her bike without training wheels for the first time.  As she gleefully weaved down the middle of the street trying to figure out how to stop, another father of a child A’s age watched from inside his house.  The next day I saw him struggling to teach his five year old to ride his bike sans training wheels.  Never mind that children develop at different rates and that some four year olds hop on their bikes and leave some six and seven year olds in their dust.  Dammit, his kid wasn’t going to be left behind by that Byrnes girl. 

If the kid next door is riding her bike and she’s playing soccer, and my child isn’t, it’s just a matter of time before that kid is in the highest reading and math groups in elementary school, on the select teams, in the honors courses in middle school, on Varsity and in the Advanced Placement courses in high school.  Ultimately, if my kid doesn’t start riding his/her bike and playing soccer when other kids do, they won’t make it into colleges that are as selective as the other kids undoubtedly will, and then of course, there’s grad school.

I digress, back to the inaugural tiny tot soccer practice.  Before leaving for it, I rolled up the newly arrived issue of Sports Illustrated (ala John Wooden) and jammed it into my back pocket.  I intended on using it as a shield of sorts in case any “Little League” parents showed up.  I would compensate for their intensity by sitting to the side dispassionately reading SI.  Interesting that I began my youth sports parent journey with that alternative, even outsider mentality, because I thought it might have evolved following A’s first practice.

Right before the practice the coach gave a great talk to the co-ed hoard of pipsqueaks about learning one another’s names and the importance of teamwork.  I thought, “Cool, A’s going to have a positive first experience with a progressive coach.”  But then, immediately after everyone quickly whispered their names, he threw the ball out onto the field and the pre-school athletes began “scrimmaging.” 

From behind my SI, I alternated between chuckling and cringing because the scrimmage consisted of fifteen midgets chasing one speedster with natural skills.  This went on and on.  There were no drills, no introduction of fundamentals, and no one learned anyone’s name.  There was learning going on though, fifteen children learned they weren’t nearly as good as their one teammate.

Midway through the scrimmage, A bonked heads with another runt and came running to me in tears.  As I hugged her and wiped her tears, I wondered, “What the hell were we thinking?”

Fast forward to the present.  A friend coaches a select soccer team and surprise, surprise, he says some parents are never content with their kid’s playing time and others, immediately after the game, want him to relay critical feedback to their daughters.  Recently, a ref said that he “should be embarrassed” by his parents’ behavior on the sideline. 

My friend didn’t elaborate on what prompted the comment, but I can picture the scene, some of the parents barking at their kid, or hectoring opposing kids, or ripping the fifteen year old ref just getting a feel for his first part-time job (as if he secretly has money in Vegas on one of the U12 girl teams).  To my friend’s credit, he was embarrassed, and things have improved following a lengthy team email.

To be continued.

First in a series.  I’ve done a lot of thinking about youth sports, mostly while sitting on the sidelines at my daughter’s soccer games.  Just because I’ve done a lot of thinking about youth sports doesn’t mean that what follows is “the truth,” it’s simply my subjective perspective based upon my particular life experiences.  I welcome opposing viewpoints and I’m curious if my perspective resonates with anyone.  Like Ben Stein said in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, “Anyone? Anyone?”

Some context.  I grew up playing sports all the time, switching sports with the seasons.  I was decent in most every sport, but didn’t distinguish myself in any.  I think positively about my sports experiences and I would describe myself as sports-minded.  

I have a hunch that I may be different than most sports fans in that I tend to root for the underdog even if “my” team is favored.  Between 1985-1989, I taught at four high schools in Los Angeles, one in the inner city, one in an upper middle class section of the San Fernando Valley, and two in between.  When watching basketball games at the well-to-do school, I recall silently rooting for the visiting inner city teams.  Similarly, if I read a compelling story about a foreign athlete before the Olympics, I’ll typically root for him/her even if they’re going head-to-head with an American. 

My daughters are privileged, as are most of their teammates.  Sometimes they play teams that appear to be less privileged, imperfectly measured mostly by the number of adults in attendance.  Sometimes my daughters’ teams thump less privileged teams and I feel alienated from the parents who continue to cheer lustily after each successive goal.  I’ve been on the other side too, having watched my daughters’ teams get spanked, and was amazed at how oblivious the other parents were to the larger context as they cheered wildly for goal eight, nine, ten.  

My first youth sports experience as a parent was unequivocally negative.  L and I signed up A, at age four, for soccer.  Good thing I have a modest blog readership because that’s a difficult admission.  If three seconds ago you didn’t stop and say to yourself, “What the hell were they thinking signing up their four year old daughter for organized soccer?” you should have.  And in case you didn’t, I will, “What the hell were we thinking signing up our four year old for organized soccer?” 

I guess the sad truth of the matter is we did it because we were human lemmings mindlessly following the lead of our peers.  I’m not proud of that, but at least I’m owning up to it.

Stay tuned.