Left The Car Running......Again

I'm not usually the kind of guy who blames others or finds excuses when I make mistakes. I mean, one of my favorite words is "accountability."

But this time, it is excuse-city. Everyone else's fault. I'm not taking the hit on this one.

Now, it is true that I'm the one who left the car running in the driveway, polluting the air throughout the Western suburbs of Philadelphia and wasting three hours of engine-idling gas, actions contrary to my avowed commitment to "being green."

And, yes, it's true that it has happened a couple of times previously. And I never blamed anyone else then, accepting my wife Kathi's explanation that at those inopportune moments I had been residing in my own little, distraction-laden location she calls "StevieLand." "StevieLand," she says, is a place where my excitement about going to or arriving at one of my son Mike's basketball games leaves me disinclined to be paying attention to details like turning off the engine in the car.

This time, though, there was plenty of blame to go around, me EXcluded. Let's itemize:

- Mike carries his basketball career into high school, earning the freshman team starting point guard position, making it critical for me to go to every game and be seated right behind the bench in time for the opening tip.

- His high school schedules all games for 3:30 on weekday afternoons, challenging hard-working me to unceremoniously make the pressure-filled, guilt-charged choice between work and family.

- Kathi wants to take one car to the game (something about that "green" thing), meaning that I have to pick her up on my way to the gym.

- Inconsiderate residents of greater Philadelphia, who rudely congested the roads, holding me up, oblivious to the pre-emptive importance of me getting to Mike's game on time.

- Demanding clients and colleagues, who had me scrambling to get so much done during early afternoon that I couldn't leave the office before 3 p.m.

So, when I pulled into our driveway to switch cars, yeah, I left the Chrysler running. Excuse me for living. I put it into Park, didn't I?

I mean, Kathi was in the driver's seat of the other car, ready to go and we were late, so I jumped out quickly and didn't turn the engine off. Hey, I probably saved 1.5 seconds, right?

Remember, I need to see every minute of every game. I mean, how else will I be able to share with Mike all of my wisdom and expertise in our post-game analysis if I don't see every single sequence. And, if we don't do the post-game analysis, how will Mike ever know what to do in the next game. Also, Mike and I absolutely need to make eye contact before the game starts. You know how that is. And if I'm not there, who will inspire him to perform at his best. His Mom? Sister? Teammates? Coaches? Personal pride? C'mon.........not like ol' Dad. We all know that, right?

So, now we're well into the 16-minute drive to school and it becomes apparent that we are not going to make it by 3:30, but 3:35 was not out of the question.

Anxiety barely under control, I frantically started calling other parents I knew would be at the game and the first two had the audacity to have their phones going straight to voicemail. Are you kidding me? How dare they not be standing by? I mean, it's not that unusual for me to be calling them around game time. They know that. Their sons have been Mike's teammates for years. And they're always talking to (and, for some reason, laughing with) Kathi about my doing that.

When I finally got through on the cell to the third person, I was hoping to hear that the game, like many, would be starting just a few minutes late.

Instead, I'm told that the contest, in fact, started five minutes EARLY and was well underway with Mike on the floor and me in a car 2.5 miles and three red lights away. Unbelievable. "Poor Mike," I thought. "Hopefully, he'll be okay."

Turns out Mike played pretty well even though we never did make eye contact until the start of the second half.

And Mike and I never did get to do the post-game analysis because, well, you know how busy things are around Christmastime.

My cellphone friend told me that Mike's play wasn't necessarily any more inspired after I arrived than before.

And, he played well in the next game, so apparently, somehow, he did know what to do.

And, you know that 1.5 seconds that I saved?

When we finally arrived, it was during a timeout.

###

Gotta Love Those Refs

It's not real hard to shut me up. Just threaten to throw me out of the building when my son and his team are playing a basketball game.

For a regular guy like me, the above episode was a shock to the system, since I'm usually just trying to get through the day. On this day, though, I may have been a bit more focused on my new coaching agenda.

You see, I'm the #3 coach for my son Mike's team in our regional fall rec basketball league. So, I'm kind of a third wheel. The head coach organizes and executes the substitution pattern and the assistant delivers the strategies and tactics during huddles and halftimes. But, since I can't help myself (and am told that I am welcome), there I am, just another dad, hanging around the bench, trying to figure out what else I can do, beyond re-filling water bottles and making sure to keep track of our basketballs.

So, for this particular size-challenged team, I have assumed the self-appointed task of reinforcing the importance of boxing out, that simple activity that makes players' lives so much easier if they would just do it.

Having spent our one pre-season practice and the pre-game warm-up personally reminding Mike and his friends that boxing out this night was a key to our success, I had an idea.

You know that joke about the guy who had three ideas -- one's terrible, one's pretty good and the third one is ticking?

Wacky Youth Sports Dad that I am, I acted on my brilliant idea and approached the refs in the moments before the game to pursue that new coaching agenda I mentioned earlier. Figured I'd plant a seed that might get us a couple of calls and possibly neutralize our height disadvantage. Introduced myself to the officials and tried to mask the following as small talk, thinking that I might actually implant a subliminal message and create a tangible, surreptitious advantage for my team:

"Yea, we're kind of a vertically-challenged team," I said to the disinterested duo, as if they really cared. "So we emphasize boxing out. When kids are boxing out, you guys are more inclined to call those over-the-back fouls, right?"

My attempt at delivering this subliminal message might have been more effective if I had been wearing a three-dimensional, boom box-equipped sandwich board.

One guy turned away, smirking and shaking his head. The other asserted loudly, "A foul is a foul and if we see it, we'll call it" in a tone that added this unspoken sentiment, "and we don't need some wise-guy Dad-coach who thinks he knows the rules telling us how to call the game."

Realizing at that moment that my little idea had no Plan B, I took my place at the end of the bench and promptly forgot about the league rule that only one, designated coach is allowed to stand up at any time during play.

In the first minute, Mike raced an opposing player to a loose ball in the corner of the court where I was seated. He got there first but was forced to contend with an aggressive double team that I, of course, interpreted as a foul. My outspoken, stripe-shirted buddy didn't agree and play went on, but I stood up and did the palms-up shoulder-shrug thing, looking directly at him. Our eyes met and he immediately launched into a diatribe during which I was twice threatened with expulsion from the building if I stood up again, citing the league rule about coaches on the sideline.

It was now clear. My idea had officially backfired. The subliminal message I was trying to implant with strategic finesse had exploded in my face.

What to do? Can't risk a T that could impact our chance of winning a game that figured to be close. Can't leave the bench - not going to let him chase me away from my commitment to help. But, wait. I can't even stand up. What about during time outs? Can I refill the water bottles at halftime? That overly-sensitive, self-important ogre. Jeez.

So, I sat down, shut up and laughed at my peculiar ability to outsmart myself in another new way.

I also learned a valuable lesson:

You just can't count on those darn refs to understand the tortured, emotional, high-strung mentality of that calculating, indispensable junior assistant dad coach sitting at the end of the bench.

###

Please comment.

Don't Mean To Get Down on Dads, But...

The thing about youth sports Dad Coaches is that they have the same insecurities as their wives and the other women they laugh at all the time.

Believe me. Men are always yukking it up with one another about the way the women are wired. The joke is that the girls worry so much about being judged by other moms that their behavior is calculated to avoid the potential negative comments that could come with the (imagined?) scrutiny of their peers.

Men will deny it, but we are the same way. The Dad Coaches agonize about gaining the respect of the other coaches and, most importantly, the Dads of his players, aka the Dad Coach Critics. The Coach agonizes about the other Dads questioning whether or not he has any idea what he's doing. And well he should. Because they are.

I'm laughing to (at) myself right now, because I've been on both sides of that equation.

Here's the big question - Did we win?

• Coach - "We've got to try to win, right? My kids and their parents all want to go home happy with the W, right? Me, too. But, the other coach and players are trying to take our heads off. Kids on the other team have been together since second grade and the coach played in college. If we don't win, the other Dads are going to have a field day criticizing my substitution pattern. Hey, wait a minute! That other coach is talking to the ref/ump. Man, it's probably his neighbor. How'm I supposed to compete with that? Is that kid gonna tell his Dad that my timeout huddle was disorganized? Oh, no - I'm outta timeouts. This is embarrassing. I know. If we lose, I'll tell the kids it was my fault because we ran out of timeouts. That'll be noble and then the Dads won't criticize me. Whew!"

• Dad Coach Critics - "Does this guy know anything about (baseball/softball/soccer/football/basketball/hockey/other)? Does he know anything about anything? Doesn't he realize Billy/Johnny/Julie/Katie needs to play (insert position) to be effective? His kid stinks - let's get that straight. Hey, I'm not sure if my kid's playing as much as his kid. My Billy had better be in at the end of the game. If we lose, I'm gonna say something. There's no reason for us to lose this game. Hey, the other coach is talking to the ref/ump. We've got to do that, too. I mean, that's the coach's job. You've gotta work the officials, right? Even my wife knows that. Why'd he volunteer if he didn't want to do what it takes? We paid $90 to be on this team. I'd like to win a couple of games. That too much to ask? Oh, no! Tell me he didn't just run out of timeouts. Yep. He did. And I'm supposed to not say anything. I hope he doesn't think taking the blame for the loss gets him off the hook."

Thank God for the kids and the games. Otherwise, what would we do with ourselves?

###

Please comment.

Breaking News: A Retirement With No Regrets

Now that we are approaching Labor Day and the Fall rec basketball season is upon us, it is starting to sink in that I have officially retired from my youth basketball head coaching career.

OMG! Here come the second thoughts!

Will I regret this momentous decision? Am I walking away too soon? Do I have another year left in me? What if I start attending coaching clinics and maybe volunteer at a camp or two? Would I then be able to squeeze out another couple of seasons?

The ramifications of this are imponderable!

Wait? What about Mike?

Uh oh! The designated starting point guard for the last five years, now 14, no longer has the ear of the team owner, general manager, coach, water boy, cell phone holder, apologist, sponsor, traveling secretary and communications/PR guy.

I'm not worried about whether he'll get his equal share of minutes, but who's going to:

• remind him to take the cell phone out of his pocket;
• get him a second water in the middle of the game because he inhaled the entire, original, oversized bottle in the first half;
• tell him to stop fooling around with his teammates and get properly warmed up before the opening tap.

But, now, I'll be able to:

• keep his mother under control if he DOESN'T get his fair share of minutes;
• offer some Ex-Dad Coach wisdom that he won't listen to while he's trapped against a fullcourt press on the side of the gym where I'm standing with the other Fathers;
• get him a second water during the game without having to abandon the bench seconds before the start of the second half;
• And remind him about his cell phone, proper warm up and every other little thing.

You didn't think I was going to stop going to the games, did you?

###

Please comment below.

If I Were King Of The World

With 13 years (and counting) of youth sports dad coaching, it is so clear, with hindsight, that I've been just as guilty as anyone of taking too seriously whether or not my team won the game.

But, I would not have won my share if I didn't take it seriously, because, as we all know, the other guy is almost always - with maximum gravitas - trying to send us home as losers. And since winning is more fun than losing and it's supposed to be about the kids having fun, coming out on top is a reasonable objective.

It is when winning takes precedence over fairness, equal opportunity, sportsmanship and logic that youth sports becomes warped.

I get -- and respect -- the youth sports culture of working to be successful with wins as the primary barometer of such success. And this is not about travel teams and top-tier select squads whose members (and their parents) are well aware of the pre-ordained, win-first culture.

This is for all those other coaches whose teams are populated by kids who just want to learn the sport, interact with friends, get exercise, please their parents, experience competition and practice sportsmanship.

So, I've got a couple of pet peeves (with solutions), though I know only too well that I'm dreaming. Unfortunately, human nature does not allow for such logic to prevail. Most coaches will do whatever they think they can get away with to influence the outcome of the game.

But, if I were King of the World:

1. The "meaningful experience" promise that coaches make to the parents of less talented kids would be replaced by the coach's commitment to absolute equal playing time.

• The"meaningful experience" line from the coach is code for the the following: The less talented kids are not going to play as much as the stars and never at the end of a close game because we want to win, baby.
• Let's see. Everyone pays the same registration fee. Why, exactly, should some kids play less than others? No one's ever explained that to me.
• It's just not that difficult to manage substitutions in a way that gets everyone an equal or near-equal number of minutes, snaps, innings, quarters, shifts, at bats or whatever. It can be done. We've all seen and (hopefully) admired those who do it. Many find a way to do it and still get plenty of Ws.

2. The conservative philosophy of encouraging baseball and softball players to take a strike and wait out a pitcher in hopes of a walk would be replaced by an aggressive, free-swinging coach-approach that encourages batters to confidently take their cuts.

• Some coaches order players to take a strike before swinging at a pitch. Others teach that a walk is the easiest way to get on base and encourage NOT swinging the bat. In this way, they seek an advantage through the potential failings of young, vulnerable pitchers who must avoid putting runners on base via walks.
• There is almost nothing positive that can result from this approach. The batter is tentative and the opposing pitcher is subject to embarrassment, if he cannot find the plate.
• Alternatively, if the batters are free-swinging and aggressive, they will be less nervous and more confident. Most importantly, they will also eventually become better hitters, instead of carrying a tentative mindset to the next level of competition.
• The most embarrassing thing that can happen to a batter is a called third strike. Such occurrences would decrease dramatically if coaches would let the kids be hitters, rather than hostages to a hoped-for base on balls.
• If a kid swings the bat, he or she has to take responsibility for the result. If he or she gets called out on strikes, he or she can blame the ump. Not a good thing.

It's supposed to be about the kids, right? Not the coaches, right?

Please let me know.

What's My Leverage With Mike? His Cell Phone

This fatherhood thing is tough.

Actually, it's not so tough with Meggie, who just graduated from the University of Richmond, Summa Cum Laude, and has already started her business career.

With high school freshman-to-be Mike, though, it's different. There's that male macho thing going on. It's kind of funny. He actually thinks he might be able to kick my ass.

Of course, there's no way, and we'll never know, but I can't legislate what he thinks, right? In fact, unless you're a law-and-order dad, you kind of lose control at this point as they enter high school. You can't legislate much anymore. You're kind of already cutting the cord.

You see, I'm too easy-going to start grounding him for mischief that is mostly manageable. (At the same time, I'm petrified because we're less than two years away from Mike and his friends driving cars. OMG!) Still, you have to maintain some kind of leverage. That's what makes it tough.

This "Letting go so they can fly" thing is weird. Like every father, I'll never forget the day I took him to the neighborhood sleighriding location, populated by kids his age but many older boys too, and leaving because he and I both knew it was time for him to operate on his own.

Thanks to 21st century technology, though, I do have an ace in the hole on the legislation/discipline/consequences front. His cell phone.

I first began to realize how indispensible it is back when he was 11 and his mother told me he needed one so he could always call to let us know he was okay. I was hitting fly balls to him in preparation for little league season that spring when every now and then I'd look up and see him in the distance turned away from me looking down - I thought - at his glove.

After about three such episodes that day (I'm a real quick study, right?), I realized that he wasn't adjusting his glove or tending to a bruise on his hand. He was texting his friends! Excuse me? I couldn't even grasp the concept of him having the phone in his pocket while chasing outfield flies, never mind making me wait while he prattled on with his pals about meeting later at the mall.

Last year, while coaching our team in rec basketball, I reached to give him a congratulatory pat on the backside as he came to the huddle for a time out after scoring on a fast break. Off target, my hand caught him on the hip -- you know, near where the pocket would be if your basketball shorts had pockets -- and collided with a rectangular piece of metal/plastic alloy or whatever those Godforsaken things are made of.

Astoundingly, he was playing the basketball game with his cell phone in his pocket. Here was my son, in a game I was coaching, competing against older, taller players with a mini-computer in his pocket, buzzing distractingly and weighing him down, no small matter, since he is, after all, white.

I outlawed that practice but we had another little issue this year at a rec game being played at Cabrini College in suburban Philly, the gym location furthest from our home (but not far from my office). Of course, Mike brought his phone but forgot to give it to me or put it in his bag by the time the game was about to start. So, he pulled it out of his pocket and placed it under a chair on the sideline, next to all the other bottled drinks and articles of clothing that clutter the floor around the bench.

Through four quarters, it got kicked around and was not readily noticeable as we left the area at the end of the game but that didn't even matter, because Mr. Absent-minded didn't remember to look for it anyway. Then, when we were almost home, he realized he had left it behind. He begged me to go back, but I said no, promising to call the next day to see if it was recoverable.

That following morning, he made me promise again to check on his phone and then he called me at work from the home phone later in the day - anxiety in his voice -- to see if I had any news.

I did get ahold of the wonderful people at Cabrini by mid-afternoon and we confirmed that the lost-and-found cell phone from the previous night indeed belonged to the 14 year-old kid with the long hair. (So that's why they have their pictures on the LCD screen - to validate ownership!)

Empathetic guy that I am, I immediately called Mike that Tuesday afternoon to say that they had found his phone. I heard a sigh of relief on the other end of the line and Mike was about to hang up when I added, "So I'll head over there and pick it up at the end of the week."

Biting my tongue to avoid audible laughter, I waited through a long, quizzical (I'm sure) pause before hearing that half-pleading/half incredulous intonation of "Daaaaad. You're kidding me, riiiiiiight?"

Though it didn't last long, I had had my fun and promised Mike that I'd go to Cabrini and bring it home that night so that he could recapture his life.

Thus, I remain in control because I know that if he pulls any wiseguy antics, I don't have to take away his basketball or his baseball or his XBox or his social life.

I know - and he knows I know - what truly matters.

We're Back! The Eating Machine and I

As my transition to fulltime blogging (say, two posts per week) nears completion, I'm back in the saddle with tales, viewpoints and the wacky things that either entertain or astound in and around the landscape of youth sports.

One of the most amazing things you see on a day-to-day basis is how carefree these kids are. My 14 year-old Mike has morphed - in the space of about 18 months - into an eating machine who is especially dangerous during the summer months. Kind of like a species of prehistoric animal, one with a latin name. Let's see...the Devoursfastfoodasaurus.

Thank God he's playing in two summer basketball leagues and dabbling in jump rope and skills drills, because the calorie burn is critical. And oh can he sleep. Sometimes, like 12 hours at a time. I'm sorry. Did I forget to mention that before that one half-day slumber session he had participated in consecutive XBox-dominated sleepovers during which the boys stubbornly tried to outlast one another until about 3 a.m., before giving in to abject exhaustion?

I mean, like, totally carefree.

The other night, I was on pickup duty for Mike and his friends, who had gone to the regional township fair. Scheduled was a sleepover at our house with two of his friends plus I had to bring home a couple of girls.

I'm an easygoing guy, so I was okay with six, total, in the car. Problem is, Mike showed up with eight, so now it's a total of nine, which would be so clearly against the law that I sought another solution. Since all these kids have cellphones, I figured it should be possible to find another parent who could take a couple of kids off my hands.

But when one of the girls called another whose mom we knew was coming, the calls and texts were ignored. We found out later that that was because the two girls were having "drama." The callee was mad at the caller and not answering.

End result was that I had to make two trips on a Tuesday night following a workday of 10 hours with a call scheduled for 8 a.m. the following morning. Still thinking that cellphone technology would allow for time efficiency, I good-naturedly went about the task of dropping the girls off at their sleepover and making my way back to the fair.

But, when I called Mike to establish the pickup point for the second trip - of course he and his friends who couldn't fit in the car went back into the fair to see what the "drama" queen was mad about - my calls went straight to voice mail because Mike's phone battery was dead. Not sure why I was surprised, since his cell ends up incapacitated in that way about twice per week.

Another month of carefree and then, high school. Think there'll be less "drama," or more?

Stay tuned.....

Starting Off 2010 With Vicodin

In launching this blog last year, I harkened back to my days as a sportswriter, when I drove editors crazy with articles too long and involved.

Taking myself too seriously - a twinkle-in-the-eye problem for me over the years - I thought that every blog post had to be a masterpiece, always telling a story, trying for humor, poignancy or pathos and delivering prose that I would be proud of longterm.

Problem is, I didn't really have time to produce the columns that I once penned as part of my sportswriting job with the (Bridgeport) Connecticut Post. And then -- without high school and college games to cover like back in the day -- I ran out of quality subject matter. Check that -- I ran out of interesting things to write about that wouldn't offend anyone.

I also missed the point of blogging, which requires frequency, provocative subject matter, photos, video, links galore, current events relevance and memorable coolness. All of that takes work--and time.

I absolutely admire bloggers like Mike Hayes (www.steadyburn.net), Bob Cook (www.yourkidsnotgoingpro.wordpress.com)and Greg Wiley (www.papabearmemoirs.blogspot.com). They get it and have for years now. I'm still trying.

Still, the subject of youth sports is as fertile an area as there is for provocative material, stuff you couldn't make up, juvenile adults, astoundingly mature children and the games, which make all the time and expense worthwhile.

So, I'm back in the saddle with shorter, more frequent posts on that subject and others related to the day-to-day adventures of a guy who goes to the games, likes to laugh -- and thinks he's funny (a few people agree).

Didn't think it was funny, though, when I had to finally resolve a longstanding kidney stone that was killing me for days at a time every couple of months or so from summer 2009 into the new year.

X-Rays and urologist appointments indicated a sizeable stone and I chose the pulverization route instead of the other option, which is the ultimate last resort, if you know what I mean. Got the doc to acknowledge that while I'd be out of commission for the day, I should be able to make a meeting that night - though no promises.

I planned accordingly, including the unpleasant 24-hour system cleansing process, and wife Kathi brought me in at 8:30 am for an 11:30 am procedure (don't you love our health care system?). Did the no-dignity robe thing and went under anesthesia on time, looking forward to putting this latest kidney stone ordeal behind me.

Problem was, the stone pulverization machine broke down and, out cold, I was unavailable to consider whether I really wanted them to "go in."

"Aha," they thought. "The wife can authorize the alternative and we wouldn't want this poor guy to have to drink another bottle of magnesium citrate to powerwash his system again, now would we?"

So, they went to Kathi, explained the situation and asked if she wanted to exercise her power of attorney. Aware of my trials of the past several months, she apprehensively gave the go-ahead, knowing that I needed it all to be over.

The end in sight, they "went in," but upon arriving at the location of the stone, there was nothing to dislodge. The stone had passed (thanks, Flomax) and what was showing up on the X-Rays was a calcification of residue in that exact location.

Oh, okay. I guess. One issue, though.

Problem with "going in" is that it is, well, INVASIVE SURGERY! Wait. I'm sorry. It was UNNECESSARY INVASIVE SURGERY!!

Necessary or not, the result of INVASIVE SURGERY is PAIN!

So, I missed my meeting that night, almost became addicted to Vicodin and spent the next week dehydrated (and off Flomax) so as to minimize the number of episodes of pain.

Postcript:

In the year 2010, medical technology still cannot definitively confirm the existence of a kidney stone.

Kathi did apologize, even though it wasn't her fault.

Flomax is a good thing. So is Vicodin.

###

Please post a comment.