My first memories of playing any sports involved two on two baseball at the bottom of Debra Lane in Bristol, Connecticut. I was probably six and just able to swing a bat. My brother Jim, me and the Miller boys would head for the turn-around at the bottom of the street where the only thing that ever turned around were the kids in the neighborhood riding their bikes on this dead end street. We’d use a telephone pole for home plate, first was the curb, second was a rock and third, a pile of dirt we’d replace after rains from the vacant lot behind home plate. With only two players on a side, we had to have invisible runners, use the pitcher’s mound as an out if the ball could be gotten there before the runner reached first, and you’d have to call your field…anything hit to the wrong side of second base was an out.
It worked…and it grew as more kids reached the age where they could be used to fill the gaps. We chose teams and who would bat first by throwing and catching the bat and placing hand over hand on the barrel to see whose hand fit last. And some players, usually the girls, came with extra strikes so they weren’t automatic outs. The goal was to play as long as people could stay…usually until lunch or when the ball would no longer stay together regardless of the amount of tape we put on it. The score didn’t matter so much and was just another source of something to argue about…like the made-up rules that governed the game.
And in all my years of playing this game, I can never recall a single adult anywhere in plain view. Sure…we had organized leagues, but their importance paled in comparison to the backyard conference.
All of this came to mind when I read a story in the PD sports about three fathers at separate youth sports events behaving so badly that felony charges followed. One was shining a laser light in the opposing team’s goalie’s eyes in an effort to assist his daughter’s high school team. Another attacked a pre-teen basketball coach in a Catholic Youth Organization and bit off a portion of his ear because the team had beaten his son’s, and a third punched a coach into unconsciousness because he had made his daughter run extra laps after practice.
There’s probably more to each of the stories and I’m sure the dad’s felt justified…acting to protect their kids or some foolish thing. And I know verbal abuse is happening in every practice and every game and in every sport all across the playing fields, gyms and arena’s of the American youth sports landscape. For many kids, it’s enough to keep them from wanting to participate. It would have kept me from coming back.
I have no answers. I’ve watched runners compete for years and love to be a spectator and coach. I’ve enjoyed my own kid’s involvement and was always excited for them when good things happened and they appeared to be having fun. But I always thought things were a little too serious and that it was a lot less fun than it had been for me when no adults were involved…and we called it ‘play’. I have it in my head that if kids today were having fun and staying active longer, then discussions about childhood obesity would lessen. I don’t think it will change anytime soon and I pray that the craziness of these three dads is the exception and not the rule.
Savannah joined me for the Survival Workout. She’s really thin now that she’s away at college, but recognizes that she’s out of shape and without tone. She can go to the fabulous facilities offered on the campus of Ohio State, but finds it inconvenient and wanted something she could do as soon as she heads out her door. Well…I gave it to her.
We did push-ups (I managed a new pr of 70…had to show off for my little girl), rock and log lifts, picnic table hops and fence rail dips. She tried climbing the swing with the aid of her legs, and pull-ups which were just ‘let-downs’. We karaokied up a hill and balanced on downed tree trunks…walking their length. By the time we finished, she was covered in mud and her soft hands were hurting…but she was smiling and still pushing herself.
“I feel tired…but not sore. Do you think I will be tomorrow?”
“If you’re not, it means you don’t have any muscles and you’re just plasma,” I said.
She’ll be sore.
Survival Workout: 60 minutes.
Training Heart Rate: 100-150.
Calories burned: 600.
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