?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 "Jos� 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.