I Am an Overbearing Sports Parent

It was a little slip of paper tucked in amongst some other stuff Will brought home from preschool. Truth be told, I almost missed it entirely. But when my eyes scanned the words on the page, I was suddenly flooded with tidal waves of excitement. And trepidation. Followed by shame for acts I haven’t even committed yet.

“Four-Year-Old Wiffleball Sign-Ups”

There’s a league for 4-year-olds that starts in April and runs to the end of May. Every Saturday Will is going to play Wiffleball with a bunch of other kids and learn the fundamentals of the game. Well, technically he’ll be perfecting the fundamentals since I’ve been teaching him to swing a bat and throw a baseball since he was about a week old. But I digress.

On the surface this seems totally innocuous and very much a win-win. Will gets to be active, play with other kids and learn about a sport all at the same time. And it’ll be valuable bonding time with him as we practice and get to be together doing something we both love. All of that is true. On paper this should be a very fun, laid back time during which I can take pictures and talk with other parents and delight in watching my son scamper playfully around the baseball diamond.

But I don’t think that’s how it’s going down.

To understand what I’m talking about, you need to know a few things about me. First of all, I’m a perfectionist. Not regarding everything in my life, but certainly regarding sports. And second, I’m a huge crybaby when things don’t go perfectly. Which is often.

When I started playing baseball at the age of 5 I showed promise very early. I had a great arm and I could hit. My first coach was a friend of my dad’s, a born and bred New Jersey guy named Bill. He was a really good guy underneath his gruff exterior, but he was also a miserable prick. He knew I was good so he held me to a higher standard. While other kids were being praised for their attempts to catch the ball, I was criticized even when I did catch it for not using the right fundamentals. Or if I didn’t hit the cutoff man fast enough. Or if I legged out an infield single he’d poke fun at me for not hitting it in the outfield.

Ultimately he made me better, but I carried lofty expectations with me when I advanced to the next leagues for older kids. And that’s when it got really bad.

I made the all-star team when I was 9 years old. We had a really great team and a lot of awesome players in our age group, and we’d play together every summer for the next four years. Our coaches really knew what they were talking about and I learned more than I ever imagined about baseball in that time. But they expected a lot. I mean it. A lot. For instance, when we were 10, I remember we lost a game to our rival, Franklin. And after the game they told us we let ourselves down, our parents down and disappointed the entire town. I was crushed and in tears. And I vowed to never let anyone down again.

As you already know, that’s impossible. But combine that need to please with a perfectionist’s attitude and you got me as a kid. The kid who cried when he struck out. The kid who cried and threw a temper-tantrum when he didn’t make a play in the field. The kid who—and I’m not making this up—cried after hitting a double off the fence because it wasn’t a homerun. And of course, the kid who nearly had a mental breakdown if we lost the game. Let’s just say there are plenty of pictures of me with my team holding second place trophies and crying hysterically.

A neurotic, hyper-competitive, perfectionist crybaby. Those were some good times.

But for better or worse, I’ve carried that with me even to now. While my athletic days have long since passed me by, that attitude resurfaces in even the most mundane of endeavors. For example, MJ will no longer go bowling with me. When we were dating, she was beating me in the 8th frame and I was so pissed off I started kicking the ball return. And those of you who have watched Patriots and Red Sox games with me can probably attest to the fact that I am, well…not exactly a sane person when things start to go south.

Even with Will I’ve seen the competitiveness flare up. I eagle-eye his milestones and make sure he’s ahead of the curve. I compare him relentlessly to other kids his age and older, and get legitimately upset if they can do things he can’t. Hell, his recent progress report from preschool showed him to be advanced in every category except letters. He’s average in letters. This struck such fear into me that I’m now going to work more on letters with him every single night until he’s reading Stephen King books.

Which brings us to wiffleball.

When I found out I had a son my first thoughts were of teaching him sports. Unfortunately, I fear I will be “that sports parent.” The one everyone hates. The one who takes a kids’ game way too seriously. The one whose son goes 3 for 5 and then criticizes him for striking out in the third inning. And God forbid Will is average or even below average at sports. I’m not sure I can handle that.

I was raised with high standards, with sports and even grades. While everyone else had the traditional grading system, mine was different. An A was good, a B was a C and a C was failing. I still remember my dad asking me why my A- couldn’t have been an A. And I don’t fault him for that, it kept me on my toes and made me work hard. But I also remember it feeling like an intense amount of pressure.

I don’t want to be That Sports Parent. I really don’t. But I think it might be inevitable. Thankfully MJ will disembowel me if I get too out of hand, so it’s nice that I have her to correct me. Yet even if I’m not expressing it, I’ll be thinking it. I already have visions of Will as the star catcher hitting the game-winning homer to take the state title. Yes, I absolutely intend to live out my dreams of unfulfilled athletic glory through my son. And yes, I’m also aware of how pathetic and unfair that is.

But I think Will is going to ultimately thank me during his Cooperstown acceptance speech. The road to the Hall of Fame starts with Wiffleball!

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9 thoughts on “I Am an Overbearing Sports Parent

  1. I started my eight-year-old boy in a junior cricket program this year with hopes he’ll be the next Dennis Lillee (he prefers bowling to batting).

    My worry is that he’s addicted to computer games and I can’t figure how to get him involved regularly with sports.

    My older boy is nearly 16 and plays soccer and tennis. He’s also a computer nerd, but has the physical activities to balance that.

    It’s harder with younger kids who grew up with computers, I think.
    Michael recently posted..Watching and playing tennisMy Profile

  2. I am currently laughing here with this line “A neurotic, hyper-competitive, perfectionist crybaby.” Those were the days. I can totally relate to that. What was your favorite sport back then?

    This post is really funny and interesting! Love it!

    – Will
    Will Maynard recently posted..How To Get A GirlfriendMy Profile

  3. My oldest has been in teeball and coach pitch. He’s often the boy in outfield caught chewing on the strings of his pants while staring at the clouds.

    I’ve never gotten into sports…I actually truly despise them. Just the sound of sports on TV makes my skin crawl and gives me an instant attitude. But, I found myself for the first time leaning over the fence screaming and cheering for every single child.

    Good luck!
    Jennie recently posted..This one is for you…My Profile

  4. I learned that lesson early. My daughter was playing competitive soccer and she was running down the ball trying to get it before the goalie of the other team got there. I jumped up and yelled, “Kick her, I mean the ball”. Suffice to say the soccer mom’s were none too pleased. I have sat quietly in my lawn chair ever since. 😉
    titfortat recently posted..The monster is your agendaMy Profile

  5. I think that you recognize these things in yourself means you’ll probably be able to keep a handle on it. It’s good to want to push your child to be better and excel, but obviously you don’t want to drive them to get upset over a second place trophy! Knowing what “that sports parent” looks like means you’ll know what to look out for.

  6. I’m That Dad. I know it and I can’t stop myself.
    My middle son is a pretty good athlete and he plays competitive baseball – my favourite sport.
    I’m also his coach. I don’t want to be. But the team never has enough volunteers and the head coach has asked me to help him again this year. I have a hard time saying no, especially this year considering he’s gone through some tough times and said he’d appreciate me there to help keep things loose and fun.
    I’m great at that. I’m the fun coach – for all the other kids, except my own.
    When a kid makes an error, I pat them on the back and tell them it’s okay as long as they’re trying to do the right thing.
    Same as when a kid strikes-out. Nothing but encouragement.
    But when my kid does those things? I’m an a’hole. Complete and utter a’hole.
    I don’t want to be. I love my son and I’m proud of him. And I try to remind him of that all the time.
    But in the heat of the moment, I say and do stupid things.
    What saddens me is that I know he’d like baseball a lot more if I wasn’t such a prick to him.
    He loves hockey and soccer – two sports I don’t really care about, where I simply encourage him and make sure it’s fun for him.
    I’m hoping and praying I’m better this year. I want to remind myself before every game that it’s just a game. Nothing’s at stake here and it’s okay if he messes up, or isn’t the team’s best player.
    My main concern should be that he’s having fun, improving his skills and enjoying the social aspect that sports offers.

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