These days it is all too common to hear unbelievable stories about parents getting into fist fights at T-ball games or moms plotting to sabotage the athletic careers of rival cheerleaders. And you think, “Dude, those parents are cra-azy! Those poor kids.”
I didn’t throw any punches today and I still think those parents are nuts. But there was a moment when I realized I am not quite as relaxed and nonchalant about our sons’ sports teams as I want to be.
Our oldest played T-ball this summer and is finishing up his first soccer season this week. When he was younger, he played instructional basketball and T-ball but there weren’t actual games–it was all about the basics. This year, in the first grade, he is practicing during the week and playing games on the weekend. I have always said that he can play whatever sports he wants as long as he wants.
As long as he is having fun that is all that matters.
I say that and I really, really want to believe it and live by it. But there is one small problem. I am super competitive. I am not a natural athlete. I am probably mediocre at best, but I grew up playing sports–tennis, softball, lacrosse, field hockey, and basketball. I played varsity basketball and tennis in high school. (But there was never any chance I was playing in college.) I wasn’t a star on any team. I played number two doubles in tennis. I was never the starting point guard. But I played. And I got in there and tried my hardest. And I loved it.
So it doesn’t bother me that Big F isn’t a natural born jock. I don’t need him to be the top scorer or the star of the team. But apparently I need him to not be the worst on the team.
He told me today he loves soccer. That’s good. And he has gotten much better. The first game of the season was spent doing handstands in the middle of the field and running away from the ball any time it came near him. Today he was following the action, joining in and even kicked the ball in the right direction a couple of times. I think I even saw some hustling out of him.
But then the coach did something I had feared since the first game. He put F. in as goalie. It was a disaster for me. I might have been kind of obnoxious even. I stood behind the goal and coached F. on what to do.
Move up! Follow the ball! Get ready! Here they come! You can use your hands. Run up! Run Up! Stop the ball! GRAB IT!
The other team scored on him…twice. I couldn’t watch. I had to walk away after each goal. My stomach was in knots. I asked the coach to take him out so I could relax. I don’t get upset when he doesn’t score or when he strikes out. I just can’t take it when win or lose hinges on his performance.
Anyway, he didn’t care that he let in two goals. And the team won anyway. But I really have to wonder. What the hell difference does it make if his team wins? And why in the name of Pete did I get so stressed out by his time in the goal?
I want him to do well and to be successful. I worried about people being disappointed with him. I worried that he would be down on himself.
Once again I learned that I can’t live life for him. I can’t play his soccer games or learn his lessons. All I can do is stand on the side lines, give some guidance and cheer really (really) loudly.
