Marching 14th, 2011 9:24pm
I suppose like any other kiddie-sports league, watching what appears to be vast tracts of psychological damage and trauma, roots of neuroses and seeds of lifelong behavioral disorders being ruthlessly ground into the tykes is going to generate a certain amount of apprehension in any parent who actually cares about their kid.
Watching the look of heart-felt failure on the face of a dad as their little 3–4 yr old breaks out crying because some kid just kicked the ball from them, leaving them rolling in the dust, unable to score a goal yet again, is withering to a father’s psyche. I know this because I was exactly that dad last year when Mac had his first season of organized-sports practice. Watching the complex and uncontrollable maelstrom of emotions—anger, confusion, outrage, angst and despair—arise out of the little bodies of these boys is heart-wrenching and terrifying, but I sense also especially self-immolating to the americana dad. We’ve all been through these incredibly strong/damaging emotions and we want to protect our kids from it, yet we are told sports teach children how to function in a competitive society; it’s a given sports are healthy and good and develop model citizens, encouraging both team-sacrifice and the taste for the pursuit for excellence that quadrennially culminate as the Olympics.
I think the worst part is watching the confusion on the boy’s face as their supposed team-mate, the one they have been practicing with for last 45 minutes is placed on the opposing-side for scrimmage and what was all practice and teamwork and fun is now very much a 15-minute encapsulation of The Lord of the Flies: the soccer ball, the conch. Then he, the lost one, will stop running and stand there alone, crying in the body-wracking way little kids will cry, innocence lost and all that cal. The fathers will run up, at first smiling and calmly cajoling, while the inevitably large set of relatives watch from the sidelines having shown up to see little junior play, and so the cajoling will quickly turn into quiet pleading and eventually outright ordering or so help me… Soon frustration sets in as the little boy continues to stand in the middle of field shamelessly crying, while the rest of the kids run back and forth, completely ignoring the poor kid, no more an object in their awareness than a tuft of grass to be stepped on, while dad is bent over, arms outstretched on either side of the boy, gesticulating wildly, trying to push the boy toward the field of play without actually touching him. Any sort of physical contact now would be an admission of complete and absolute failure. Inevitably, you will see—it will happen to every dad out there at one point—you will see failure washing over the dad’s face like the tears washing their son’s.
The mom’s get this. I’m not sure what all they know as they patiently calm their son that dad has made inconsolable. I do not know all that Jenn or the rest of the moms’ know but at least I know they already know that these are their little boys and not men, not ready for the testosterone-fueled competitiveness that is prevalent for much of man’s life. Scarlett of course, has been blowing any and every belief or myth or general sense of knowledge about girls, especially little girls, not only out of the water but vaporizing pre-conceptions a priori. Scarlett at this stage in the game, could literally run circles around the boys on the field, leaving them choking on her dust.
This year, it turns out that your kid actually does OK. No jags of crying that lock them up. This year it’s not you out there but another dad going through the same feelings of failed fatherhood, but now you know that being able feel this already disproves the fear. You want to go up to them and say my son did exactly same thing and that almost exactly one year ago on this same spot, I felt exactly what you are feeling right now, thinking it’s only your kid who stands apart from everyone else, tears streaming, overwhelmed with terror that roots them the ground, unable to think, act or walk, let alone kick a ball in any meaningful manner. You want to pat them on the back and say, “It’s OK. we’ve all been through exactly what you feeling and it will get better. And you’ll learn not to take the entire clan to watch little johnny play and score the winning goal. Next time it will be just you and him, one on one and it will be a whole lot better.”