Don’t tell the parents, but the hardest lessons are for them.
I hear they're good for the kids, too.
Seriously. I think I've had to do a lot more on the personal growth side than Emerson has, even if he's the one that puts on the uniform and walks out on the diamond, or slips on those big spongy gloves and settles down in front of the soccer goal.
Kids, they're the experts on play. If we gave a dozen of them an old soccer ball and left them alone in Caldwell Park for the afternoon, they'd probably organize the match of their lives. When I was a kid in the mountains we had pine-ball games with broken-off Ponderosa branches and carefully selected cones. Why do I remember? Because it was so much fun.
It's not that adults add nothing. But let's face it, often what we add is not pretty.
At 10, Emerson is now in his fifth year of playing organized baseball and soccer. Unlike me, for better or worse, he didn't grow up running wild in the woods. There are practices, and drills, and game times and apps to help us keep track of it all.
Along the way, I've had to learn a few things. I'm quite certain my education is still in its early stages, but here are the take-aways so far:
- It's not all about me. This is a recurring theme all the way through. When Emerson gets up to bat, I can almost feel the grip in my own hands. If he swings at a bad pitch, I see my own mediocre eye-hand coordination coursing through his veins (even though, lucky kid, he has more of his mother's athleticism). I experience every little success and failure as if it were mine.
But it's not. Those things belong to him. If he goes back out to center field after a botched play and catches the next long fly ball that's hit his direction, he's the one who did that. If he makes a great save and then gets beat on a goal, he's the one who will ultimately figure out what went wrong. His failures are his to learn from, and his successes are his to soar on.
Have I got that one down? No.
- For heaven's sake, shut up. I'm not sure what it is about sitting in the bleachers or standing on the edge of the field that seems to disable that part of the brain that regulates speech. It just comes pouring out, a stream of commentary and critique, encouragement and (we think) enlightenment.
The worst possible situation for a kid — and we put them in it all the time — is to have the coach yelling one thing and the parent yelling something else. It's bad enough if they're both hollering basically the same direction. But frequently the instructions are completely different, unrelated or contradictory. "Lay off the bad pitches!" yells Dad. "Swing the bat!" yells Coach. When the kid strikes out while trying to think about how to do both, whose fault is it?
John O'Sullivan, an expert on coaching who thinks a lot about these things, recently wrote a blog post that included a list of "six ways adults take the enjoyment out of sports." Every single one of them involves overuse of the mouth. Shouting instructions from the sidelines, yelling to kids while the ball is in motion, disrespecting officials, questioning the coach, disparaging the way teammates play. No. 6 is a big one for me: Lectures on the ride home. Oh yeah, that.
- Coach a team, if you can. If you can't, see rule No. 2.
- You can't make anybody love something they don't. Yes, I had already sort of learned this lesson from several ex-girlfriends, but had to learn it all over again as a parent. When Emerson was in preschool, we tried having him play soccer and he wanted no part of it. I decided this was the time to prove a point about sticking with commitments. I ended up holding a confused and sobbing little boy on the sidelines, and wondering just how bad at this parenting thing I could really be.
- Wear sunscreen. Seriously, it's dangerous to sit in that sun for two hours at a time.
By the way, if you're at all involved in this stuff or know anyone who is, O'Sullivan has a foundation called Changing the Game Project that is worth a look. It's at changingthegameproject.com.
Letting kids play and just love their games is tougher than it sounds. Which is what makes it so good at building character. For adults.
Reach Editor Silas Lyons at 225-8210 or firstname.lastname@example.org. He's on Facebook and Instagram, and on Twitter @silaslyons_RS.