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Bringing Parents Up to Code
Posted: Wednesday February 23, 2000 10:14 AM
There's only one place in the galaxy where kids' sports is
sane.
Jupiter.
Jupiter, Fla., that is, where on Feb. 15, the town's athletic association
did something we should've done in America 20 years ago. It took the
parents out behind the woodshed.
If you wanted your kid to play on one of the Jupiter association's zillion teams
this year, you had to file into a minor league baseball stadium, watch a video
on sportsmanship and then vow not to insult, cuss at, holler at, spit upon,
push, punch, body-slam or otherwise abuse a coach, referee, team mom,
scorekeeper, fan, player or another
parent.
You think it doesn't happen? In Port St. Lucie, Fla., a youth soccer coach
head-butted a referee, breaking the ref's nose. In Wagoner, Okla., a 36-year-old
coach started choking a 15-year-old umpire in a tee\!ball game for 5- and
6-year-olds. In Palm Beach Gardens, Fla., a baseball game for 7- and 8-year-olds
ended in a parents' brawl. In Boca Raton, Fla., one of the managers in a
baseball game for 9- and 10-year-olds mooned the opponents'
parents.
And you thought pro sports was mayhem.
Jupiter parents had to sign the code of ethics, which included such pledges as
"I will remember that the game is for youth -- not adults" and
"I will do my very best to make youth sports fun for my child." Break
the code and they're banished from the association's games for as much as a
year.
Problem was, that code didn't go nearly far enough. As a poor slob who has
coached kids' sports for 10 years and gone to more kids' games than Mr. and Mrs.
Osmond combined, I would've made the parents sign this -- in
blood:
I'll keep in mind that, in case I hadn't noticed, my kid isn't related to
the Griffeys. There's probably no college scholarship on the line, to say
nothing of a $116.5 million guaranteed contract with the Cincinnati Reds. In
fact, right now my kid is filling the inside of his baseball glove with ants. He
looks happy. I'll shut
up.
I won't dump my kid out of the Lexus 20 minutes late to practice and then honk
the horn when I pick him up 20 minutes early, as though the coach is some kind
of hourly nanny service. If my kid has to miss a game, I'll call the day before.
It doesn't cost any more to be
decent.
I'll remember that this isn't the seventh game of the NBA Finals. This is
the 6-year-olds' YMCA Lil' Celtics finals, and by supper time not one of these
kids will remember the score. They will remember that I tried to ride the
other coach bareback, and possibly they'll remember the incident in the squad
car, but not the
score.
I'll realize that the guy behind the umpire's mask, whom I've been calling
"José Feliciano" and "Coco, the talking ape," is
probably just a 15-year-old kid with a tube of Oxy 10 in his pocket, making $12
the hard way. I'll shut
up.
I'll stop harrumphing out of the side of my mouth about how much the coach
stinks, unless I want to give up my Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays every
week, call 15 kids every time it rains and spend $200 every season on ice cream,
catcher's throat guards and new seat covers. I'll shut up. (Oh, and once a year,
I'll tell her
thanks.)
I won't rupture my larynx hollering nonstop directions. For one thing, my kid
can't hear me. For two, because I'm shouting, he can't hear the coach, either.
For three, I really have no idea what I'm talking about. Screaming at little
Justin to "Tag up! Tag up!" when there are two outs is probably not
very helpful. I'll shut
up.
Win or lose, I won't make the ride home the worst 20 minutes in my kid's life.
"You played great" should about cover it every time. Then I'll shut
up.
One season a year, even if it kills me, I won't make my kid sign up for an
organized sport. It's probably not necessary to have him play 91 hockey games in
three leagues from September to June and then send him to Skating Camp, Slap
Shot Camp and Orange Pylon Camp all summer. I'll try to remember that Be a Kid
Camp isn't so terrible once in a while. Neither is Invent a Game Involving a
Taped Sock, a Broom and Old Lady Winslow's Fence Camp, come to think of it.
Most important, I promise I'll do everything in my power, no matter what, to
remember to arrive at games with the single most important thing of all ... the
orange
slices.
Issue date: February 28, 2000
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