One Outlandish Aspiration

This Holiday blog post morphs into one that would fall under the alternate title of “Wacky Dad of a College-Age Daughter.”

Worry not. It has some of the same elements as youth sports – competition, boys, parental pride, stuff you couldn’t make up and, as usual, wackiness.

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With Hilary Clinton ensconced comfortably as Secretary of State and now of an age that probably precludes a White House run.......... and with Sarah Palin, apparently, saying, “No Mas”........ it is once again wide open as to who will be the first woman to ascend to our nation’s highest office.

Now, I’ve been known to get a wee bit carried away when it comes to my children. So, to me, what the above means is that my daughter still has a shot. That’s right, a shot at being the first woman President.

Why am I caught up in such an outlandish aspiration? Well, I’m looking for the ultimate assurance that Meaghan will never be reliant on some laughably unworthy male from her generation for the things that will make her happy in this life. Thus, I choose to harbor the hope and belief that she can become the first woman President.

Hey, it’s not so far-fetched. She’s rolling along with a 3.89 at the University of Richmond (the State of Virginia has produced more Presidents than any other, right?), majoring in business and leadership. She is a precocious, Type A personality with scores of friends and extracurricular activities, including monthly performances with an improv troupe that plays to capacity crowds at the student activities center. She just experienced her sixth trip overseas, this time for a semester of business school in Normandy. She’s in Washington D.C. this summer, interning for the Altria Group and is already being recruited for jobs that would begin one year from now, following graduation. How’s all of that for tracking toward the Presidency?

Thus, even if she does marry some “Whatshisname,” my scenario with Meaghan as President of the United States works pretty well.

I mean, who do you think will wear the pants in that family? Don’t imagine she’ll be doing much cooking for him, do you? Wonder if he would ever have the nerve to ask her where his socks are? And, guess who will be keeping his mouth shut if she happens to be a few minutes late?

It’s an issue. All Dads of college-age daughters will agree. For reasons still unknown to me -- reasons, I'm sure, that you couldn’t make up -- our perfectly-capable, high-achieving daughters are attracted to these irresponsible louts who have zero earning power and priorities that boggle the mind. What do they bring to the table that I do not?

I’m funny. I’m cute. I have a Facebook page – though I’ve kind of plateaued at 41 friends.

So, here I am, hundreds of miles away, playing second fiddle to a bunch of twerps, time with my daughter supply-and-demand precious, even when she's home for a week or so a couple of times a year. And these clowns just keep hanging around, little else to do, semester after semester, for years at a time.

Bottom line, I am her father, yet I am powerless to guarantee the thing that is most important of all - her happiness. But there is hope. The Presidency.

So, sayonara Sarah.

Hasta la vista, Hilary.

Nice try.

With your dual demise, it remains eminently possible for me to envision my history-making daughter in the White House, appropriately in charge, of many things, including her husband, who will have no leverage in the relationship and no influence over her happiness.

What if she loves him, you say? Wouldn’t he then have some influence over her happiness?

Nah. She has already professed her love for me.

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The Dad-Coach With No Kid on the Team

We are constantly amazed at my peculiar ability to somehow end up in situations that seemingly never happen to anyone else.

I mean, who else could wait seven long years for the opportunity to coach his first youth sports team and then find himself without a son or daughter on the squad.

Only me.

Now, when the inevitable bumps and bruises occur on the field of play, I’m a typical male. With my 13 year-old son, Mike, I play the Mr. Macho Tough Guy role, operating on the basic philosophy that if you’re not bleeding, you’re fine. (Actually, that’s just what I say to get a rise out of my wife, Kathi, and a laugh out of fellow Tough Guy Macho Male dads). “Be tough, shake it off and get back into the game,” is my mantra with Mike.

I was not nearly so harsh years earlier with my daughter, Meaghan, and the girls on our Under 8 soccer team.

After waiting almost a decade, Meaghan turned seven and I finally had my shot at coaching my first youth sports team. (You might not think seven years is almost a decade, but don’t forget the nine months that I had to wait for her to be born). We had just moved to Pennsylvania from Connecticut and Meggie was a spry, little second-grader who was as active as the next kid though not necessarily athletically inclined.

The luck of the draw had me with a roster that included Meggie and a bunch of her friends from school, three of whom ended up as high school soccer stars.

So, we had a clear edge in speed and athleticism in every game (won the league title at 7-1 -- our loss was my fault; poor substitution pattern that had girls not well-suited for defense in those positions at the end of the game).

After the first couple of practices – forgive the predictable cliché, but girls that age are unspeakably cute -- Kathi and I were informed by our doctor that Meaghan’s consistent string of strep throats required a blood workup. The result was a definitive diagnosis of Mononucleosis.

Of course, Mr. Macho Tough Guy has always believed that -- at least to some extent -- these invisible, so-called ailments, like Mononucleosis have more to do with lack of discipline and will rather than any real physical malady.

“Epstein-Barr Syndrome?,” I would say to myself skeptically. “I’ve got an idea. Get a good night’s sleep and then man-up.”

“Attention Deficit Disorder? Please,” I would mutter to myself. “I know a treatment. Discipline and consequences. Try that.”

In my admittedly neanderthal world, Mononucleosis fell into the same general category, except that this one was close to home.

So, the practical, pragmatic guy that I am, I accepted the diagnosis and then was told that Meaghan would miss most – if not all – of the season. Limited general activity and no sports were the doctor's orders. She had an enlarged spleen and physical contact could result in the kind of injury that I would be able to see – like my daughter doubled over in pain with internal bleeding. As with most of these things, Kathi was in charge of Meaghan’s availability and since I had plenty of bodies and plenty of talent, I never even brought it up.

So, fully committed to the team and excited about our athleticism, I marshaled on without a child on the active roster. It was easy because I was inspired by these girls (who I called guys – I asked permission; they said OK) who tried to do everything I said. And by Meggie, who came to most of the games and rooted for her friends from the sideline.

Toward the end of the season (as with most youth sports teams), the girls actually started to get it, combining spacing on the field with their speed and strength. Also, some became good dribblers, enabling me to take partial (ok, miniscule) twinkle-in-the-eye credit for their success in high school. Thus, when Kathi gave the green light for Meggie to come back for the last game of the year, I was pumped to get her out there even though she was way behind all the other kids on the team.

So, she didn’t start that final game (and could not have cared less). A few minutes of playing time would be just fine with Meaghan.

The magic, Kathi told me, was that she was finally wearing the same uniform as her friends and that we were all going out for ice cream after the game.

Still, I was excited to finally, actually realize the objective that had motivated me to take on the coaching commitment in the first place. I wanted to be directly involved in my daughter experiencing the fun of organized youth sports activity.

A short while later, I subbed her for one of our midfielders and about two minutes into my utopian moment, a kicked ball nailed her right in the stomach. She stopped in her tracks but was uninjured. Still, Kathi told me to take her out of the game.

But, wait. As the coach, I was in charge, not Kathi, right? Once I saw she was okay, shouldn’t she have shaken it off and stayed in the game? Especially since she had missed the entire season?

Nah. I pulled her out and she never got any more playing time.

And that was just fine with me, too.

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Guilt-Ridden Dad Happy to Clean Up the Kitchen

When Mike was 10 years old and having fun playing all the sports, I took a job in New York City. It was a dynamic opportunity with a highly-respected company, but it would require me to live up there during the work week and travel home to suburban Philly on the weekends.

On the list that we all make of pros and cons surrounding the decision, the downsides mostly involved my not being there day-to-day for Mike as he approached maturity, manhood and – come on now, let’s get to the important stuff -- increasing levels of competitiveness on the fields of youth sports play.

As it is with most headstrong males who think there’s nothing they can’t handle, I convinced myself that my terrific relationship with Mike would overcome the most serious misgivings I had. We would communicate effectively over the phone during the week and I would be there for all of Mike’s games on the weekends, including Friday nights, when I would catch the Amtrak train as early as needed to make kick-off, first pitch or opening tip.

What I didn’t realize was that I was terribly guilt-ridden as an away-all-the-time Dad (there was plenty of weekend travel with this job, too). I couldn’t be a coach because there was no way to make that time commitment. Thus, there was nothing that I wouldn’t do to be involved with the coaches, contribute as a volunteer, socialize with the other parents and otherwise ease my uneasy feelings about whether or not I was doing the right thing.

I learned two things:

1. Parental involvement in youth sports can include a lot more than just showing up
2. Guilt is a powerful thing.

• Basketball scoreboard operator – All season long, moms told me that their husbands would wait in the car until just before gametime so that they wouldn’t be recruited to be the volunteer scoreboard operator. Not me. The fact that nobody else wanted to do it was a badge of honor for guilt-ridden me.

Only problem was that for most of the season, I was a work in progress. You see, when Mike would get the ball after a timeout, I was so intent on watching him in action that I would forget to start the clock. A complicating factor – Mike was the point guard.

Invariably, parents from the opposing team would start yelling at me and at the refs about me. If we were winning I would just sheepishly start the clock. If we were losing, I would have to run off some time on the clock, completely embarrassed, in front of the entire gathering of players, coaches and parents.

Worse still, my wife, Kathi would tell everyone in the stands why I hadn’t started the clock and all had a good ‘ol time at my innocent expense.

• Pop Warner Football play-counter – Possibly the most difficult job in all of youth sports. Because football coaches , especially, get carried away with their desire to win these games, they are unfortunately prone to keeping the best players on the field in pursuit of the desired outcome. So, there must be checks and balances to ensure that all players have a fair opportunity and the rule in Mike’s league was that each kid had to be in the game for a minimum of 12 scrimmage plays.

My job – and I salute the hundreds of thousands of others who have fulfilled this role – was to stand on the opposing team sideline and monitor the substitutions to ensure that the coaches were doing the right thing. The role is adversarial, you are surrounded by strangers who want to send your kid home a loser and reliable information is not easy to come by.

It’s sad to say – and scary too – that there are youth football coaches who actually make this difficult by strategically inserting lesser players into the games at the end of the first half or on hopeless third and fourth downs in working their way toward the minimums. I’m not talking about having the best players in at the end of a game, which is acceptable coaching behavior. I’m talking about a genuine effort to manage the substitution of lesser players so that they would not “hurt” the team in the minds of those coaches. This, at the expense of a meaningful experience – like the continuity of several consecutive series – for those usually younger, smaller players.

Forgive the serious interlude. There is nothing cute or funny about it. And those coaches are the ones who should be guilt-ridden.



• Baseball scorebook keeper – Baseball is a complicated game and keeping score in the book is a pain in the neck. The coaches don’t want to do it because it takes constant focus and concentration and they have enough just reminding the kids what to do and getting everyone his or her fair amount of playing time.

So, I loved to keep the book, because it made me an indispensable part of the operation and had me right there on the bench with Mike and his friends during the entire contest. Problem was, I didn’t know the local rules and when I pointed out to one of Mike’s coaches that the other team had substituted for their best players in the second inning but was putting them back in in the fourth, he started asking for more detail, saying that he might protest the game.

Talk about “Sorry I brought it up.” There was no way I was going to be able to track back exactly when players were substituted for. So, I used my power of persuasion to talk him out of such confrontational thinking. After all, I had to catch a train back to New York in less than 14 hours.

What was funny? When Mike and I arrived, I was so excited to be there with him and to be involved in the game that I put the car in park, hopped out, closed the door and wandered over to the field without ever turning off the engine. Three and one-half hours and 1/8th of a tank of gas later, we returned to the car and everyone in the immediate area had another laugh at my expense.

• Snack bar cleanup – There is a chance that I am the only Dad ever to have engaged in the culminating job associated with those wonderful snack bars that populate youth sports fields across our great country – clean up.

The snack bar is typically the domain of the moms. They take control because of their food preparation knowledge and experience and these dedicated women invariably step forward when teams are assigned shifts to keep the forces hydrated and fed and to keep those fundraising dollars flowing.

Guilt-ridden and trying to do more than my part, I volunteered for a closing shift at the Little League field, where greasy cheese fries, grilled hot dogs and hot pretzels are the order of the day. After a long Saturday of non-stop games on three different fields in the complex, I found myself alone with the boss – a paid high school kid nicknamed "Hitler" by the moms because of his authoritarian approach to maximizing the use of the volunteers until the last counter was clean.

While "Hitler" was counting the money, I was on cleanup duty – alone. Now, when I clean up the kitchen at home, I always have Mike or my daughter, Meaghan, to help. But they weren’t there. They were gone. Everyone was gone. The other mom on the closing shift had to go home with her husband and kid because they only had one car. It was getting dark.

Did you ever feel sorry for yourself?

Since a job worth doing is worth doing well. I scrubbed, scraped, scoured and wiped, getting it all done-with a smile on my face.

Guilt – to be sure – is a powerful thing.

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The Importance of Having the Right Equipment

One Saturday morning during those too few seasons after tee ball and before the double digit-age years when kids and parents start taking Little League Baseball far too seriously, my wife, Kathi, asked me a question out of the blue about Mike’s batting glove.

Mike was probably about eight and I’m pretty sure it was early in the season, so his lifetime number of at bats against a pitcher other than somebody’s dad probably numbered less than 20, including the entire previous season. He didn’t have any blisters that I was aware of – never had -- and I couldn’t figure out why she would care even a little bit about whether or not he had a batting glove.

Now I’m the kind of guy who always wants to be at the game early to demonstrate our commitment to the coach (when I coached my daughter’s under eight year-old soccer team, I always started the first six kids who showed up). So, Mike and I would always leave for the field early without Kathi. She would then come later with her mother, Mimi, or our daughter, Meaghan.

The game was already underway and I was coaching first base, so her question interrupted my concentration. I can’t remember whether that first inning interruption affected the outcome of the game (kidding), but I couldn’t imagine what could be so important.

“Steve, does Michael have his batting glove?”

“What ?” I answered hurriedly, turning my head only partly in her direction so I wouldn’t lose track of the count. “Why do you care about his batting glove? Does he even have a batting glove? What does he need a batting glove for?”

Kathi apparently felt it was a legit question because I was in charge of Mike’s equipment and we left, with Mike in uniform, before she did. Rest assured that the only glove I was worried about was his fielding glove, which he actually did need, because he was playing third base.

Curiously, she didn’t really answer and left me to my critical first base (kidding again)coaching duties. “Kids this age don’t need batting gloves,” I muttered to myself while turning fully back toward the field.

The next day, Sunday, we had another game and this time she came early with us. I had forgotten the previous day’s conversation until I saw Mike wander over to grab a bat and a helmet in preparation for his first at bat of the game. Then, I watched him reach into his back pocket and pull out a little blue batting glove. It had to be the smallest size that they make and I noticed that it matched our hat and uniform color blue.

Then, I looked over at Kathi and saw her smiling and pointing at Mike while commiserating with another mother. At that moment I realized that it wasn’t about comfort or gripping the bat, about which Kathi knows little. It wasn’t even about preventing blisters, about which she knows a lot.

It was about cuteness. The little boy putting the little batting glove on the little hand was just too cute for words and Kathi had to get her fix.

Then I began to notice that most of these kids, some not even 100 months old, had batting gloves. And they handled them much the same way that Major League Baseball players do, sticking them in the back pocket, putting them on as part of the on-deck ritual and peeling them off after the at bat.

It was a mom-concocted conspiracy of cuteness.

Sporting goods companies were selling hundreds of thousands of these triple small size batting gloves. Millions of dollars were being spent on these thin shapes of fabric that serve no purpose whatsoever. And they were manufactured in different colors so that moms can match them up to their kids’ uniform hue.

Whether these style-conscious moms know anything about the meaningful tools their sons actually do need on the field – a broken-in fielding glove, the right size bat, cups for the catchers – doesn’t matter. Their kids will have a batting glove and it will be the right color! ###

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DADS IN DENIAL: NBA.COM’S “DREADED P.G.A.”

What a trip it was when I started looking around the internet for youth basketball information when Mike started to show some promise as a player. He spent an entire spring playing for two hours per day in the driveway until he pretty much willed himself, with repetition, into becoming a good ball handler. I was having a blast and patting myself on the back for being the wonderful, well-adjusted father of a standout youth athlete.

There were more leagues than I ever knew about. Mike’s AAU coach told me about www.basketballdirector.com and I could not believe how many tournaments there were. In addition, there were day camps, shooting camps run by the famed Herb Magee, overnight camps at Villanova, Knights of Columbus Free Throw Shooting Contests and skills challenges.

We were doing everything we could find just for the action. The most fun were the games, because, of course, they kept score. And, after the games, we always had to talk about what had happened, whether I was coaching or not. Sometimes, it wasn’t easy and Mike wasn’t really interested, especially if he didn’t play well. But I always believed that my approach was perfectly appropriate – never overbearing, accentuating the positive, forgetting the turnovers and reinforcing the learning-by-experience process.

Still, we always talked about it right after the game; what else were we going to do on the ride home?

Then one day I went to NBA.com and started looking around for whatever programs they had for kids. I was certain that there had to be something since I had observed the league marketing machine as a fan of the sport over the years. I figured I’d see if there were any competitions that we could enter regionally so Mike could experience doing something associated directly with the NBA.

It was very cool to find a microsite called Jr. NBA www.nba.com/jrnba/ where there was all kinds of great stuff. The NBA had put real resources into the youth brand development component of its long-term marketing plan and the elaborate nature of the website was evidence of that. A letter to parents from Bill Walton. Pre-game meal suggestions for young players from Ray Allen. Just cool, fun, instructive content.

Then, I came upon a section with suggestions for young players called Relating to Your Parents. Another click and I saw the subhead: Dealing with the Dreaded P.G.A. The thought of golf flashed into my head and was quickly dismissed as I asked myself, “What the heck is P.G.A.” Reading on, I was informed that P.G.A. stands for Post Game Analysis. Getting defensive, I thought to myself, “What do they mean, ‘Dreaded.’”

“If you become the victim of a P.G.A. from your Mom or Dad..." was part of the copy that followed. What? Now I was really getting defensive. Dreaded? Victim? How dare they?

Then, again, there are all those news reports of over-the-top dads and I’ve witnessed a few unfortunately intense parking lot lectures myself. I guess it’s a legitimate point. There are certainly dads who get carried away.


“But that’s not the way it is with Mike and me,” I internalized. “Our conversations are constructive,” I continued, convincing myself beyond the slightest doubt. “Mike likes our post-game exchanges. And he appreciates their value.”

My wife, Kathi, will validate this for me.

“Steve, dreaded is the perfect word to describe it,” she lectured with a knowing half smile that put me on notice. “The kid doesn’t want it to happen and the father is desperate to share his insights. And everyone knows that the kid is not going to absorb much of it anyway.”

Dreaded? Victim? Now, desperate? But it’s different with Mike and me, right?

“Please,” she responded with a patronizing shake of the head.

Mike?

“Sorry, Dad. I just don’t look forward to it.” Mike offered candidly, not quite breaking my heart. “I just think it’s annoying. Dreaded is a good description.”

Okay, I’ll give you dreaded then, but victim? Come on now.

“Steve, a victim is somebody who is forced to do something they don’t want to do that could be painful. Something over which they have no control,” Kathi stated unflinchingly. “Isn’t that exactly what it is?”

C’mon, Mike. Help me out here. Victim is a little much, right?


“No, Dad. Sorry, again.” Mike said sympathetically. “You would, like, interrogate me about why I didn’t do something during the game. Victim is accurate.”

Ahhhh. Those two. They’re always ganging up on me for fun. And they're so cute when they exaggerate.

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The Ring Dance Story

My daughter Meaghan is totally put off by the fact that this blog centers around her brother Mike and the youth sports pursuits that he and I engage in together. Of course, this 20 year-old still holds a grudge from the day ten years ago when I used his birthday numbers as a password for one of my internet accounts instead of hers.

She’s also a 3.89 at the University of Richmond, something of a high achiever across the board, and one of her most endearing traits is that though she might sometimes be wrong, she is never in doubt. Once when she was in a particularly princessy frame of mind as a senior in high school who was somehow in charge of the world, I addressed her. My objective was to hand her a bit of humility with a strategically constructed question.

“Tell me, Meaghan,” I asked in a mock serious tone for effect. “What is it like to know everything about everything?”

With just a very brief pause enabling her to revel in her recognition of my attempt at putting her in her place, she responded, “Feels pretty good, actually.”

Of course, she forgot to mention that just a few months earlier she had failed her first driver’s test (rolled right through a stop sign). Similarly, she neglected to recall this observation that she made about Greek life at the University of Richmond: “I’m not sure I like this. If 45 per cent of the boys are in fraternities and 45 per cent of the girls are in sororities, that means 90 per cent of the students are Greek.” She recognized the gaffe immediately but that was too late and we will forever have that arrow in our quiver.

So this young lady is the star of the weekend as Richmond’s junior year Ring Dance takes center stage this past February. It is a wonderful event born of a longstanding tradition of women’s pride at one of America’s great educational institutions in one of our country’s great southern cities.

The men wear tuxedoes, the girls wear gowns for a blockbuster Saturday night party at the famed Jefferson Hotel. The highlight of the evening is the father escorting the daughter down this magnificent staircase with the young lady receiving her class ring from the Dean of the school on the bottom step.

You can imagine the amount of cost and effort during the preceding months as the three women in my household went about finding that gown. It was “Father of the Bride,” cubed. Since I was paying, I didn’t want to have to do anything but show up. Who was I kidding? I had to get measured for a tux. Then I had to go pick up the tuxes (Mike had to wear one, too). As usual, I tried to maintain my sanity by just going with the flow and we rolled into the weekend in pretty good shape. Drove down to Richmond on Friday and with all our formal wear dominating the back seat of the car I was glad that my wife, Kathi, had insisted the gown go back to Richmond when Meaghan returned to school in January.

Because we were four people (mother, grandmother, Mike and me), we had a suite at the hotel while Meaghan was staying with other girls in a room on another floor. The plan was for Meaghan to get dressed in our suite, where the mom and grandmom could primp and pamper her in the manner to which she has become accustomed.

Saturday morning comes and Mike and I are pretty juiced. The deal is that the girls are going to be gone for hours beginning at noon and we could do whatever we wanted. Just had to be back by 4 p.m. A quick check of the neighborhood turned up a YMCA right across the street. When we asked at the front desk we got more good news. The hotel had an arrangement with the Y and we could come and go as we pleased all day. Even we couldn’t play hoops for more than four hours at a time.

Great basketball with some of the Richmond hoops cognoscenti who congregate at the gym on a Saturday morning. We learned some new drills and did our thing for hours, went to lunch and were obediently back at the hotel by 4 p.m.

At that exact time, a call comes in from the Princess, who was undeniably in charge this particular day. And she was acting like it.

“Dad,” she stated dictatorially. “The girls are behind schedule. You and Michael have to both be in and out of the bathroom by 4:30 p.m. Got it?”

She had no real interest in any response, but I dutifully acknowledged the order and hung up the phone. I then told Mike that we’d have to hurry and that I would go first, thinking that I’d then be available to take additional orders upon their return.

So, in a rush, I walk into the bathroom and take off all my clothes. Somewhat uncomfortable in these unfamiliar surroundings and naked to boot, I hurriedly reached in and turned on the shower. I then wheeled around toward the sink to locate my toiletries before continuing the clockwise rotation toward the shower.

At that moment, my eyes fell upon the sight of Meaghan’s gown hanging on the shower curtain rack, far wider than the tub itself, undoubtedly being hit by the stream of water from the showerhead.

I let out a noise that Michael describes as a dinosaur in labor, some sort of heaving utterance that was somehow both loud and breathless. I lunged to turn off the water and paused to ask myself if what seemed to have happened had actually happened. Was it possible that on this weekend that we had been talking about for the past three years, on a day when I was willing to just do what I was told so that Meaghan’s experience could be as perfect as possible....was it possible that I had ruined her pristine, white, more-expensive-than-I-ever-want-to-know Ring Dance gown?

Anxiety under control, I gingerly peeled back the adjacent shower curtain and reluctantly surveyed the damage. About one-third of the gown was hit and it appeared to be a rear corner. The water seemed to be beading up a little bit and I began to think that I might not die during the next half hour.

I carefully removed the dress from the bathroom while asking myself what, exactly, was it doing there in the first place. I quickly dismissed the thought that anyone of the female gender would assume even the slightest amount of blame. They surely would have some justification – however inane -- for hanging a ridiculously expensive gown in a bathroom, on the shower curtain rack, well within reach of the water stream, when we had a huge suite with all kinds of unused closet space.

I dabbed it with a towel, said a prayer and plotted the explanation:

• Because they were late, I had to hurry. It was their fault.
• I was uncomfortable in an unfamiliar environment. It could have happened to anyone.
• Everything in the bathroom was white and blended together. Yeah!
• AND WHAT WAS THE GOWN DOING IN THE BATHROOM IN THE FIRST PLACE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The moment of truth came about 25 minutes later, when Kathi and her mother returned to the room.

Upon seeing the look on my face, Kathi said, indelicately, “What did you do?” Instead of defending myself, I took the high road, relayed the facts and said, “It may not be that bad.”

It wasn’t and we figured that with some strategic logistical maneuvering, Meaghan wouldn’t have to know. Mike managed to keep his mouth shut during the dress up phase and the staircase scene, along with the entire evening, was saved. About six hours and a few underage glasses of wine later, I told a giddy Meaghan the story in the company of several classmates. Her jaw dropped only to her bellybutton instead of the floor, primarily because the day was mostly done.

For the record, here’s what they said about why they hung the dress up on the shower curtain rod:

After three weeks hanging in the dorm, Kathi’s mom thought it would probably be crushed so she went out and bought a steamer. To have access to water in a place where it could hang freely, they decided to place it on the shower curtain rod.

Oh. Okay. I guess.

When I tell the story now, the most amazing thing is the reaction of women when I approach and tell the gown-meets-water part. Some grab my arm, others gasp as if witnessing a murder and others fall into my arms with a hug of empathy when it becomes clear that disaster was avoided.

The men laugh knowingly. Mike just shakes his head.

And we still do those Richmond basketball drills (suicides while dribbling with a between-the-legs bounce on each shift of direction).

And I just count my blessings, remembering that, sometimes, whatever can go wrong, doesn’t.


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MOMS IN CHARGE!

One of the most consistently hysterical things about youth recreation sports is the way that the moms are in charge of just about everything. I’m not talking about just the snack bar and the volunteer fundraisers and the “Team Mom” communications.

I’m talking about the very essence of youth sports recreation – whether or not the kids are even there.

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“How ya doing,” the photographer who took pictures at the basketball tournament Easter weekend said to me this week.

“I’m aggravated right now,” I offered candidly. “My wife won’t let my son go to his basketball game tonight because he’s overloaded with homework. I made a commitment to the coach and now he may be short of players, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Oh, Lordy!” He exclaimed. “I’ve been there. Just do what they say. They’re in charge. You don’t know nothin’. Biggest thing is, if you do what they say, you won’t have to hear about it later.”

The previous week, I was asking another Dad if his son could play in an AAU basketball game the next weekend. This is a man’s man, a guy who coaches three sports with an appropriate authoritarian approach, who, you would guess, wears the pants in his family.

My question about his son’s availability drew a blank, uncomfortable, vulnerable stare. My first impression was that some outside force had rendered him speechless for some reason. Then, he blurted. “Oh, I don’t know anything about that. I have no idea. You’ll have to talk to my wife.”

His tone made it clear that he wanted me to take that last sentence literally. This guy, who may be a captain of industry at the office, was not going to be making any executive decisions here. He did not want to be in the middle of this one. He was clearly out of political capital with the real boss. He knew that I knew his wife and that was enough of an opening to get him out of this deal. He didn’t say “she’s in charge,” but he didn’t have to. He knew and I knew, because most dads are in the same boat, including me.

So this past fall, Mike wanted to play three sports. Football for his new middle school, fall baseball in the town league and rec league basketball for a team that I was coaching. With school underway and Mike engaging the challenging 7th grade curriculum, we knew it would be a tight squeeze schedule-wise, but the opening was there:

• Football practice and games were all after school on weekdays
• Basketball had no practices and games only on late Sunday afternoons or evenings
• Baseball was during daylight on the weekends

So we got started and the inevitable happened. Homework and tests were incessant and increasing and there were elaborate projects that required kids to work together outside of the classroom. The concept of learning a foreign language -- Spanish -- was something Mike did not take well to.

Something had to give and my wife, Kathi, was adamant. Our perfect attendance record at Mike’s games and practices was in serious jeopardy.

Wacky Youth Sports Dad that I am, I started doing whatever I could to make it work. Studying with Mike in the early mornings, going to the game sites 15 minutes before the start time instead of 45, taking over Mike’s responsibilities around the house – that was my new MO. I actually believed that I had stabilized the situation.

One week or so later, I get an email from Kathi around 4 p.m., after Mike arrived home from school and the daily ritual of reviewing homework and upcoming tests was complete.

Steve:

Mike will not be able to go to football practice tomorrow and the Sunday basketball game is out. We’ll see if he can play baseball on Saturday. He has a project due on Monday and midterms are next week.

Of course, my answer to all of this is that proper time management would make everything doable, but that would mean no chatting or texting, no video games, no downtime in his room and no cuddle time with Mom. Knowing only too well that that wasn’t going to happen, my warped mind turned to another solution.

So I replied to Kathi’s email with deadpan matter-of-factness.

Kath:

This academic stuff is really starting to get in the way of Mike’s sports schedule. Do you think we could drop a couple of classes?

Steve

About 90 seconds later, my cell phone rang and there was Kathi. And she was not laughing.

“How old are you? You’re supposed to support me in all of this. And it’s not funny.”

Of course, I was kidding. But it is a bit scary that the thought even entered my head.

I’ve been trying -- unsuccessfully --to force it out ever since. ###


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Hey. Thanks for taking a minute.

Please post a comment with your own such adventures.

Did That Coach Just Call My Son An "Easy Out?"

This is one of those true stories that can only be produced by the raw emotions of youth sports and the parents who come to watch – and subconsciously monitor – the games.

It is five years ago now, but all the participants remember it like yesterday.

It played out like live theater with conflict and resolution, protagonists and victims and finally an apology, accepted without a blink, half a decade later.

It was a Saturday morning during the spring youth baseball season at a cool little field here in suburban Philly. Parents were leisurely gathered in their lawn chairs surrounding the diamond, grouped predictably but separately behind and around the dugouts of their sons’ teams.

It was late in a hotly-contested game among eight year-old boys who were now old enough to turn infield grounders into forceouts and to genuinely care about winning or losing the game, advancing in the standings and getting to the playoffs.

First and second, two down and my son, Mike, is next up at this pivotal point in the game. I’m sitting in one of those lawn chairs next to my wife, Kathi, who is a loving, charitable but emotional soul whose motherly instinct to protect her young is, let’s say, acute.

Spectating along the first base line, we are a bit more tense than usual as Mike steps into the batter’s box. Then, Kathi hears a coach’s voice from across the field, “Okay, easy out.” Her interpretation of what she heard was the coach denigrating her son, who was smaller than most and still finding his stroke.

“Did you hear that?” she said to me sternly, immediately. I hadn’t, but she was fired up. “Mike heard it too. I’m going to give that coach a piece of my mind.“

Somewhat stunned, I watched her march behind the backstop and approach the other team’s bench, stop and address the coach, who was sitting on the upside-down bucket, facing the field and completely unaware of one mother’s impending wrath. I watched his head turn toward Kathi and but couldn’t hear the exchange. It was brief, attention-getting – and one-sided. Kathi doesn't remember what she said, but knowing her, I'm pretty sure "How dare you" was in there somewhere.

Kathi did an about face, walked purposefully back and resumed her seat. Seconds later the allegedly insensitive coach approached our group of parents and declared his innocence, stating that he was exhorting his team with the well-known phrase “easiest out,” which directs them to throw any infield grounder to the nearest base, since only the last out of the inning was needed.

“I would never have said ‘easy out.’ I’m not that kind of person,” he declared, pleadingly, to an uncomfortable group of fellow Little League parents from the opposing team who had no idea who he was or whether or not he had been wrongly accused. He made his point and retreated and the incident was mostly forgotten.

Now, of course, no one remembers what happened with Mike’s at bat, which team won the game or whether either made that season’s playoffs. But we remember that it was a Saturday morning, exactly where we were sitting at that field and the various images, including that of an accused man trying to explain an unfortunate misunderstanding to a mostly detached audience.

That image struck me again this past fall and I began to realize that that coach may well have been the father of a kid who had actually become Mike’s best friend. Kathi and I had gotten to know he and his wife well through youth sports interaction and a series of sleepovers with the boys.

Great guy, who, there can be no doubt, would never have called any kid an “easy out.”

First time I encountered him after coming to the realization that he had actually been wronged, I approached and said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” he offered and as I proceeded to describe the scene, he stopped dead in his tracks, looked me right in the eye and said, largely unamused “Yeah, that was me.”

Kathi knew what was happening and had kept her distance before seeing his reaction. She then came running over to give him an apologetic hug.

Turns out, he wasn’t even supposed to be coaching that day. He had gone to the game as an innocent dad watching his son play baseball, just trying to get through the day, when he was recruited to handle the head coaching duties. Less than an hour later he was under fire, the object of an intense verbal attack from the horrified mother of a poor, little eight year-old boy.

“I remember exactly what I was wearing,” he told me. “I was sitting on that bucket. I couldn’t believe what Kathi was saying. When I saw (the head coach who didn’t make the game) the next week, I said ‘Thanks for nothing.’”

As we go to Mike’s games now, this is one of our favorite youth sports competition spectator stories, one that brings even greater laughs now that all the parties are friends.

And it feels good to know for certain that another youth sports dad-coach did only the right thing.

###

Hey, thanks for listening. Please post.

FUNNY STUFF: STARS IN HIS EYES, INCLUDING JIM BROWN AND ALLEN IVERSON

I guess it’s a bit presumptuous to suggest in the title that this stuff is funny, but check it out and let me know by posting a quick comment.

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When my 13 year-old son Mike was eight and having some success as a running back in Pop Warner football, he asked me who were the best running backs in NFL history. So, we went to the laptop, signed on to NFL.com and clicked on the page of all-time leading rushers. Can’t remember exactly who was there, but we all know the names -- Jim Brown, Emmitt Smith, O.J. Simpson, Eric Dickerson and others. Some of the players Mike had heard of; some he had not.

As I was rhapsodizing about how fast and strong they all were, Mike interjected, “I’m gonna be on that list some day, Dad.”

I was a bit thrown, because it was clearly a declaration as opposed to an aspiration. It was the simple articulation of an innocent dream by an eight year-old but I had to respond and -- we all remember our own such episodes -- I had to respond carefully.

I paused and said, “Mike, these guys are the best of all-time. That’s a tall order. But I wish you luck and I’ll be here to help you.”

Next day, we were headed out to the yard to run some patterns because Mike wanted to show the coaches that he could catch, too. I remember exactly where I was walking on the driveway when Mike offered, out of the blue:

“Dad, you know that list of running backs we were looking at yesterday.”

I answered, “Yeah, Mike.”

He continued, “Any of those guys white?”

I chuckled inwardly and then audibly, realizing that the simple fact that Mike asked the question indicated that he had a certain awareness of the reality that the best African-American athletes are flat-out superior to the best Caucasians.

I responded. “No, Mike.” We exchanged a knowing, smiling glance and got to work running those patterns. I decided not to say anything to Mike about who are the greatest wide receivers of all time.

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Most people remember the famous Allen Iverson “Practice” rant, when he actually disparaged the single most important fundamental element of team sports competition. Iverson suggested that practice was meaningless, at least for him, characterizing it as a distraction.

Mr. Iverson, who doesn’t need me to suggest that he may be the most talented six foot-tall player in the history of the sport, has since matured, apologized for the comments, and regained the respect of many of us who don’t want professional sports stars to influence our children negatively.

Because we’re here in Philly and Mike has been an avid SportsCenter watcher since just before that season, he saw and digested the many “Practice Rant” replays both on ESPN and on the local news. It made an impression on him, I later learned.

A month or so had passed and Mike, now nine, was having some success in basketball, playing every afternoon in the driveway and winning the starting point guard job on his CYO team.

While shooting around that day, we were talking about the importance of dribbling with the left (off) hand and the fact that practice would help him improve. In another wonderfully innocent gem, he offered,

“If I keep practicing every day, I think I could be as good as Allen Iverson, because Allen Iverson doesn’t like to practice.”

This time, I didn’t respond, except to say that, yes, Mike, you’re right, practice is important.

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Thanks for listening. Please post. Would love to hear similar stories.

What Kind of Dad Would Do That?????????

So, the season opener CYO baseball game this spring has me in charge as one of four assistants filling in for the head coach, who couldn't make the game. Little did I know that the experience would end up with me being accused of being an unfit dad.

Debut on the big field for most of our kids and playing under the lights for the first time ever against a team that we knew was strong. No pre-season practices because of the inevitable spring rain, but everyone was relatively comfortable as we relished our role of road underdogs.

Had plenty of notice that I would be head coach, so spent some time during the previous 48 hours and thought I had both of those crucial elements covered - - enough pitchers and catchers.

WRONG!

My backup catcher forgot to bring his cup (athletic supporter protection)and my primary catcher was also my backup pitcher. The dominoes started to fall the wrong way when my first pitcher tired and started missing the strike zone while approaching his pitch limit.

Couldn't use my intended second pitcher, because he had to catch since my cupless backup catcher was ineligible to play that position.

Couldn't put someone else's son into the position of having to throw strikes against a topnotch team, under the lights, in unfamiliar surroundings from major league distance for the first time in his life.

But, I could do it to my own son, right? He was a pretty good strike-thrower on the Little League field over the past three years, but had never pitched to a single batter from the Major League distance.

So, he warms up and enters the game in the bottom of the fourth, bases loaded, nobody out, down 3-1 and facing a law-and-order umpire whose strict strike zone had done in my starter.

A little while later, Mike's line was impressive -- depending on your interpretation: two innings pitched, no hits, five strikeouts and, well, six walks. Tack on a couple of errors and we were down 8-1 and well on the way to a lopsided loss.

Later that night at home, Mike's moping around and talking to his Mom in the next room. I wander in to cheer him up and all of a sudden Kathi chirps loudly, both rhetorically and accusatorily:

WHAT KIND OF A FATHER PUTS HIS OWN SON IN TO PITCH WITH THE BASES LOADED AND NOBODY OUT WHEN HE'S NEVER PITCHED FROM THAT DISTANCE BEFORE IN HIS LIFE? YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF!

Mike is standing next to her, hanging his head like some poor, homeless waif, wrongly accused of stealing a loaf of bread.

"YEA, DAD!," Mike chimes in in a distressed tone of voice. "HOW COULD YOU DO THAT."

It doesn't get much worse for a Dad who's usually just trying to get through the day. Fortunately, I saw a little smile creep up on the corner of Mike's face. They were putting me on.

I pretended that I knew the scam all along and fired back, defending my actions with the original rationale -- I couldn't have reasonably done that to any other mother's son.

Truth is, Mike relished the challenge, loved the spotlight, survived the crisis of confidence and actually appreciated the fact that I started him at shortstop even though five other kids had listed that as their position of choice.

Next day, wise guy fellow assistant Dad-coach who had to leave early sends me a text saying, rhetorically and accusatorily:

WHAT HAPPENED? IT WAS 1-1 WHEN I LEFT. THEN I HEAR WE GOT BLOWN OUT. WHAT GIVES?

I replied that it was a tough night for the Griffith boys, who wouldn't have had it any other way.

Wacky Youth Sports Dad

Here we go. First blog since my wife was in the hospital recovering from a huge but curative operation. The pressure is on, baby!

Figured have to have a theme more specific than my unique observations of the human condition. So, I choose the one thing that I do that has true audience-attraction attributes:

My daily interaction with my 13 year-old son, Mike and

• his friends


• coaches (including me)


• refs, umpires and other officials


• his friends' parents


• and the entire culture of youth sports, which consistently cracks me up.

Those attributes are emotion, excitement, drama, conflict, change and, most of all, humor. I will convey all of that to the best of my ability.

For me, it will be both cathartic and therapeutic. For whomever reads, I hope only that it be well worth whatever little time they spend - for I know how valuable everyone's time is (OMG, my first cliche).

The one recent occurrence that has all of the above attributes came last month, when I got a called for a technical foul while coaching one of Mike's CYO basketball games. (OMG, I just said to myself. Don't make this blasted blog all about you!)

So, we are an equal playing time collection of 13 year-olds -- some pretty good -- in a level below the so-called A teams that each Parish here in suburban Philly has one of (Oops. Ended a sentence with a preposition. Wait. It's OK. I'm blogging!). Late season road contest with not much at stake but that satisfaction that comes with winning, crowd of about 15 parents, tight contest with a couple of quality refs being paid $35 each.

The most inconsistent call all season long around here is the player prone on the floor with the ball being called for traveling or not being called for traveling. I've found no one who can dispute the previous sentence.

So the opposing team player outhustles my guy to a loose ball and slides across the floor while gaining possession and flipping it to a teammate. Seems to me that that is usually a travelling call, but no whistle and I apparently jumped up and down like a four year-old (don't really remember), eliciting a whistle and the dreaded T from a ref who deserved better from me.

Their guy hit one of two but we managed to eke out the win (Mike had a great assist for a layup to seal it).

This being CYO competition, I had to go through a post-game process of providing my name and contact info to the ref who hooked me (That's right, no such process in AAU). Also had to produce an incident report in which I was properly humble, apologetic and deferential.

Through it all, my dominant feelings were:

• I could have cost our players the feeling of winning the game - not a small thing since we didn't have many Ws


• Various CYO administrators had to spend personal time on the incident report because of my childish behavior

The punchline is that my players were imitating me and laughing at me at our next practice and, I can't believe I actually did what they said. I now truly know what the insanity defense is.

Also, my wife told the other parents that I would be in "Time Out" for that coming weekend, which I was (with dispensation for Mike's games).

It should be my last T. I'm not an over-the-top dad-coach who takes himself too seriously, which is why I think this blog has a chance to entertain.

Next time -- the dreaded PGA. That is the always-required (by the Dad) Post Game Analysis.

Please post!

Thanks for your time.

Steve