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