The casual reader of this space knows by now that ours is a baseball family. Our boys have grown up with the game, and play it pretty well.
While it may well appall seemingly "normal" households that boys would be allowed to throw a ball indoors, Bride & I have resigned ourselves to the inevitability of this activity, preferring instead to beseech them to at minimum show caution as to WHERE the projectiles are headed. Given their skills, lamps typically remain upright, and windows intact.
So, in I walk to the kitchen one recent evening, to find Son #1, to whom the fates have given a healthy throwing arm, delivering high-level heat to Son #2, at a distance of about twenty feet. Admittedly, it's a Wiffle ball, but it's still moving rather smartly.
I then admonish #1, asking him to keep it to off-speed stuff.
Really, I did.
I then start to chuckle, then go straight to full-body laughter at the absurdity of what I've just done. Here I am, fifty years old, negotiating with my sons WHICH KIND OF PITCHES THEY MAY THROW IN THE HOUSE.
Good Lord. I have completely lost my mind.
**************
Which brings us to youth sports, overkill, and the insane scheduling of children these days. This is not some Luddite, nostalgic rant about a return to a simpler time; I'm a big believer that change is both good, and inevitable, and that's just the way it is. However, when 10-year-olds are toting around I-Phones (latest version, if you please) to simultaneously keep track of their schedules, text their friends, and call Mom to get them from practice to piano lessons, something, to me, seems amiss.
It will come as no surprise that I am also a big believer in youth sports. They're fun, keep kids busy and physically active, and promote teamwork and character. That these are all good things is self-evident. Like any good thing, however, too much can be, well, too much.
Our boys primarily play baseball and basketball, with Son #2 throwing in some fall soccer into the mix. The seasons mesh together pretty nicely, meaning that basically we get free weekends in August, and in late March. Beyond that, it's "Who's playing where?", about 44 weeks of the year. This much, we're accustomed to.
This year's been a little different. Son #1, who is turning out to be an above-average baseball player, not only made his modified (middle school) team as a 7th grader, but also played in a 13-16 year old house league, and was asked, at 13, to play for a 14-under travel team. What this has meant is that he's played roughly 45 ballgames since April 1. Factor in Son #2's Little League schedule, and we have sixty ballgames in essentially three months. This is, as they say, becoming a bit much.
Thing is, I know for a fact that this is neither terribly unusual, nor by any means worse than other parents deal with. I thank God every single day that my guys don't play hockey; that's just insane. A good friend's son, and my own nephew are both elite-level 15-year-old hockey players, and trips every weekend to Canada, or Massachusetts, or Mars are utterly routine for those poor bastards.
I want my children, like any other parent, to succeed, and to enjoy their youth; it passes far too quickly. That said, the experience I've had in youth sports over the past 8 years has led me to a few conclusions, both exhilarating and sobering:
1) The odds against my kid being the next Jeter/Lebron/Insert name here are astronomical. While this is not a surprise to me personally, it would stagger the casual observer how many parents truly believe their kid IS the Second Coming. This leads to the essential dilemma of travel sports; parents who want to believe their kid can do it get lured by travel sports organizations into parting with large dollars to facilitate dreams of college scholarships, and lucrative professional contracts. Already, Son #1 has received flyers imploring him to "try out" for UnderArmour "National teams", if only Mom & Dad will part with $300 for the privilege. I personally know of parents who have paid that much or more just to audition for travel baseball teams locally; one Dad seriously told me this program would greatly improve his boy's opportunity for a college scholarship. Having coached the boy in question, I think it's a bit of a reach; he's good, but not that good.
2) Try VERY hard to temper your expectations; they get in the way of enjoying your child's progress. I had a conversation a year and a half ago with my best friend, and the topic turned to the kids, and specifically to Son #1's baseball. It was right about the time I was realizing he was getting good, and was trying hard to avoid the flights of fancy in 1) above. Matt, as usual, set me straight. "You think it's possible he might someday make his high school team?" I admitted I did. "Then let him make that team before he makes the Yankees, OK?" I think about that conversation a whole lot.
3) If you get through 1&2, then this one's easier: Have fun with this, and make damned sure your child does, too. If the only reason your kid is playing youth sports is because YOU desperately want him/her to, then you have a "you" problem, and it needs to be addressed. The winnowing-out process for young athletes can be as political as it is Darwinian; I urge parents to make certain, after about age 12 or so, that this is something the kid really wants to do. If not, they are very likely to be very miserable.
The point of all of this? Like chocolate, youth sports are a good thing. Still, too much of either can make you sick.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
On Grace
"Grace" can be amazing; it can define elegance of movement or conduct, a humble request for divine guidance or intervention, or simply the name of a good friend. Today, we'll take a look at grace as it applies to sport, as a result of two specific events of this past week.
*******
The first event is the passing of John Wooden, at the age of 99. Coach Wooden's accomplishments are quite simply legend; the only man inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame inducted as both coach AND player, ten national titles in twelve years at UCLA, and so forth. The college basketball player of the year receives the Wooden Award. As Casey Stengel said, "You can look it up."
I never had the privilege of having met Coach Wooden, so all of this is truly secondhand opinion, but I have also never known of any public figure this side of Mother Teresa about whom one never heard, said, or wrote ANYTHING negative, EVER. Not one thing, and I have looked into this. This man was so universally respected and loved that it suspends belief. His team may have just whomped you into next week, but he did not embarrass you.
As tribute to his memory accumulates from around the world, the common thread one constantly sees is that his professional accomplishments pale in comparison to his personal value as a man. For seven decades, John Wooden was an educator, advisor, and friend to all who encountered him. His concerns were simple: praise his God, love his wife and family, and help anyone and everyone he could. Rest well, sir. You have lived a life of grace, and we are the better for it.
Event #2 this week was, of course, the perfect game that wasn't. For those of you just returning from the Antarctic, this past Wednesday evening in Detroit, Armando Gallaraga of the Tigers was one out away from the 21st perfect game in baseball history. A simple ground ball to first baseman Miguel Cabrera, a toss to a covering Gallaraga, and immortality. Out by half a step.
Enter first base ump Jim Joyce, a respected 20-year veteran, who saw it differently. Joyce called "safe", and immortality goes out the window. Amid the snarling chaos of the ensuing argument, Gallaraga's calm, smiling mien stands out. The man has to be simply gutted at that moment, yet not only does he not come close to arguing about it, he just smiles, returns to the mound, and induces the next batter to ground out for what goes into the books as a one-hit shutout.
Grace also implies character. Re-enter Jim Joyce, who may have had a notion he got it wrong on the field, took all the heat imaginable there, then went into the umpires' dressing room to see the same replay millions of others had already seen. The play was close, but not that close, and Joyce knew he clearly got it wrong. It's what he does next that was graceful.
Joyce immediately asks permission to enter the Tigers' clubhouse, and without hesitation, walks up to Galarraga and admits his mistake, saying "You were perfect, and I wasn't". Galarraga accepts his apology, gives Joyce a hug, and that's that.
Galarraga's essential response to the swarm of media afterwards? "Sure, it's disappointing, but people make mistakes. Jim's a good ump, he apologized, and it's over. We still got the win."
The next day? Galarraga presents the lineup card to home plate umpire Jim Joyce, who's wiping tears from his eyes. They shake hands to a rousing ovation from the Detroit crowd.
The point of all of this? Grace can manifest itself in many ways, and most of them can teach us a lesson or two.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
*******
The first event is the passing of John Wooden, at the age of 99. Coach Wooden's accomplishments are quite simply legend; the only man inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame inducted as both coach AND player, ten national titles in twelve years at UCLA, and so forth. The college basketball player of the year receives the Wooden Award. As Casey Stengel said, "You can look it up."
I never had the privilege of having met Coach Wooden, so all of this is truly secondhand opinion, but I have also never known of any public figure this side of Mother Teresa about whom one never heard, said, or wrote ANYTHING negative, EVER. Not one thing, and I have looked into this. This man was so universally respected and loved that it suspends belief. His team may have just whomped you into next week, but he did not embarrass you.
As tribute to his memory accumulates from around the world, the common thread one constantly sees is that his professional accomplishments pale in comparison to his personal value as a man. For seven decades, John Wooden was an educator, advisor, and friend to all who encountered him. His concerns were simple: praise his God, love his wife and family, and help anyone and everyone he could. Rest well, sir. You have lived a life of grace, and we are the better for it.
Event #2 this week was, of course, the perfect game that wasn't. For those of you just returning from the Antarctic, this past Wednesday evening in Detroit, Armando Gallaraga of the Tigers was one out away from the 21st perfect game in baseball history. A simple ground ball to first baseman Miguel Cabrera, a toss to a covering Gallaraga, and immortality. Out by half a step.
Enter first base ump Jim Joyce, a respected 20-year veteran, who saw it differently. Joyce called "safe", and immortality goes out the window. Amid the snarling chaos of the ensuing argument, Gallaraga's calm, smiling mien stands out. The man has to be simply gutted at that moment, yet not only does he not come close to arguing about it, he just smiles, returns to the mound, and induces the next batter to ground out for what goes into the books as a one-hit shutout.
Grace also implies character. Re-enter Jim Joyce, who may have had a notion he got it wrong on the field, took all the heat imaginable there, then went into the umpires' dressing room to see the same replay millions of others had already seen. The play was close, but not that close, and Joyce knew he clearly got it wrong. It's what he does next that was graceful.
Joyce immediately asks permission to enter the Tigers' clubhouse, and without hesitation, walks up to Galarraga and admits his mistake, saying "You were perfect, and I wasn't". Galarraga accepts his apology, gives Joyce a hug, and that's that.
Galarraga's essential response to the swarm of media afterwards? "Sure, it's disappointing, but people make mistakes. Jim's a good ump, he apologized, and it's over. We still got the win."
The next day? Galarraga presents the lineup card to home plate umpire Jim Joyce, who's wiping tears from his eyes. They shake hands to a rousing ovation from the Detroit crowd.
The point of all of this? Grace can manifest itself in many ways, and most of them can teach us a lesson or two.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Friday, June 4, 2010
On Youth
"Youth is wasted on the young." - George Bernard Shaw
********
"When I was 14, my father was the stupidest man on Earth. By the time I was 21, I was amazed at how much he had learned in seven short years." - Mark Twain
********
I am a fifty-year-old father of 13 and 11 year-old sons. This is fact, and, as always, lends itself to opportunities for observation. Yesterday was one of those days.
My oldest son, who will be 14 this fall, took his 7th-grade class trip yesterday to Boston, and I had the pleasure of serving as one of the chaperones on the trip. 300+ kids and 40 or so chaperones and teachers filled seven buses at oh-dawn-thirty for a three-hour ride to one of my favorite cities, and the cradle of our nation.
I love Boston, and know it pretty well. I have visited the city many, many times, and fully subscribe to the notion that it's the "biggest small town in America." Truly a city of neighborhoods,there's more history packed within its boundaries than any other city in the country, and monuments to that history are everywhere. Back to that in a moment.
The trip over the MassPike to Boston is pretty uneventful, and even considering the horror show that is morning traffic in the Hub, we arrive at the Boston Museum of Science a few minutes ahead of schedule. Fully caffeinated, I am paired up with one of the school's teachers, and we are charged with the care and feeding of ten of the kids for the day.
All 350 of us, student and adult, are attired in get-out-of-the-way yellow T-shirts for the trip. While this makes identification of us as a whole simplicity itself, picking out individuals within this sea of yellow is much more along the lines of a "Where's Waldo?" exercise, which merits a moment's mention.
I take this assignment pretty seriously; as a parent and longtime coach, I am sensitive to the well-being of children above all things, and have a few reminders for our charges before we begin. I deliver those admonitions in my typical style; abrupt, to-the-point, and clear on the notion that their safety takes FAR greater precedence than their actually liking me. This last point requires private reinforcement shortly thereafter with one of my son's friends; to his credit, it was only needed once.
While I've done this kind of thing before, it was never on this scale. A friend and I shepherded our two kids and one other through the Metropolitan in NYC last year, but that was nothing in comparison. I got the distinct feeling of what it must be like for the Secret Service; constantly scanning for your charges, and also looking for potential problems. I do not mean to compare my task to that of protecting the President, but the analogy applies. One looks for potential issues, and looks to head them off before they even arise. In my case, I also learned to count to ten VERY quickly.
Two hours at the Museum of Science pass quickly; the place is undeniably cool, and the kids enjoyed it. We then pile back into the buses, count heads, and head downtown for a brown-bag lunch on the Common before we start on a part of the Freedom Trail.
The Boston Common is the oldest public park in America; 44 acres of green surrounded by history and high-rise. A lovely spot, and one, like any other such urban space on a nice day is inhabited by both the fortunate, and those less so. Under the category of staving off situations before they become problems, we manage our charges, eat lunch, and proceed along the Trail for forty-five minutes of walking history.
For those who have not done so, the Freedom Trail is required walking for anyone with an interest in American history. It winds through Boston, taking you past many of the seminal locations of the Revolution; the Old North Church, the Granary Burial Grounds, and Faneuil Hall are just a few of the stops along the way.
Anything that winds through Boston winds through Boston traffic as well. Boston traffic is justifiably the stuff of legend; narrow, centuries-old routes do not lend themselves well to modern vehicular traffic, and the Boston driver compensates with acts of automotive lunacy. Lights that are red for longer than a few seconds are usually considered broken, and let's not even get into highway conditions. This all can make pedestrian travel hazardous; one wonders why pedestrians aren't stacked up on the curb like cordwood. This merits mention only because one of our young ladies might not have paid full attention to admonitions about street-crossing, and had to absorb a rather sharp warning to retrurn to the (relative) safety of the sidewalk.
We reach Faneuil Hall/Quincy Market uninjured, and with all our number. We now have about forty-five minutes to wander about, surrounded by the sights and smells of a simply wonderful combination of urban mall and open-air market; everything from Abercrombie & Fitch to the cheapest dreck imaginable is readily available, and it has to be Boston's premier tourist attraction.
A brief aside; I have nothing but brothers, and have raised nothing but sons. I did not understand even remotely the teenaged American female when I was a teenager myself, and nothing has occurred in my life since then to add to that understanding.
This shortcoming becomes particularly evident when it comes to the retail experience. I am blessed to have married a woman who does not treat shopping as sport; Bride certainly is particular, and chooses purchases with care, but she is decisive and blissfully quick when it comes to shopping, and I am forever grateful for it. Her characteristics in this regard, sadly, are not universally-embraced by the modern American teenager, male or female.
We enter an American Eagle store.
Good God.
My chaperone compatriot wisely suggests we split the group on a gender basis, rapidly (and correctly) appraising that I am simply not up to the task of keeping up with the young ladies. Sadly, I'm not a hell of a lot better with the guys; they're flying from pillar to post. With the boys, at least, I'm able to communicate the notion that we have a finite amount of time to get done before we have to head to our final stop of the day, the IMAX theater at the nearby New England Aquarium, and we complete our retail therapy.
A sea of yellow shirts converges upon our last stop, and as we're being queued up for entrance to the movie, a sizable usher commands silence, asking if (insert name here) is in the crowd. No response. After accounting for our ten, and watching teachers fan out in search of the missing student, we enter the theater. After the movie, I'm told that the missing girl was indeed in the crowd; she simply hadn't been paying attention, had fallen in with some friends outside her specific travel group, and that neither occurrence was a particular surprise. Maybe not a surprise, but definitely the type of thing that keeps one awake at night.
After the movie, we pile back onto the buses, have one more successful head count, and begin to leave for home. All the kids are safely headed back to their rightful owners, and this chaperone can finally relax after what is now becoming a fairly long day.
Not so much.
Put 60 or so 12-14 year-olds in a confined space, completely jacked-up from the adrenaline of the day, not to mention the normal hormonal conflagrations resulting from such close confines, and the result is pure, unaldulterated cacaphony. Interminable story short? The notion of resting on the way home is fantasy, and the din of the crew, bouncing around the inside of the bus like a BB in a tin can, is trying. God bless him, Son #1 falls out in minutes, leaving me only the relative solace of Lewis Black on the Walkman amid a sea of chattering, wildly-texting kids.
The point of all of this? While George Bernard Shaw may well have been right, thank God the young have their youth. Without it, they'd never survive shopping. As for Mr. Twain, we shall see.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
********
"When I was 14, my father was the stupidest man on Earth. By the time I was 21, I was amazed at how much he had learned in seven short years." - Mark Twain
********
I am a fifty-year-old father of 13 and 11 year-old sons. This is fact, and, as always, lends itself to opportunities for observation. Yesterday was one of those days.
My oldest son, who will be 14 this fall, took his 7th-grade class trip yesterday to Boston, and I had the pleasure of serving as one of the chaperones on the trip. 300+ kids and 40 or so chaperones and teachers filled seven buses at oh-dawn-thirty for a three-hour ride to one of my favorite cities, and the cradle of our nation.
I love Boston, and know it pretty well. I have visited the city many, many times, and fully subscribe to the notion that it's the "biggest small town in America." Truly a city of neighborhoods,there's more history packed within its boundaries than any other city in the country, and monuments to that history are everywhere. Back to that in a moment.
The trip over the MassPike to Boston is pretty uneventful, and even considering the horror show that is morning traffic in the Hub, we arrive at the Boston Museum of Science a few minutes ahead of schedule. Fully caffeinated, I am paired up with one of the school's teachers, and we are charged with the care and feeding of ten of the kids for the day.
All 350 of us, student and adult, are attired in get-out-of-the-way yellow T-shirts for the trip. While this makes identification of us as a whole simplicity itself, picking out individuals within this sea of yellow is much more along the lines of a "Where's Waldo?" exercise, which merits a moment's mention.
I take this assignment pretty seriously; as a parent and longtime coach, I am sensitive to the well-being of children above all things, and have a few reminders for our charges before we begin. I deliver those admonitions in my typical style; abrupt, to-the-point, and clear on the notion that their safety takes FAR greater precedence than their actually liking me. This last point requires private reinforcement shortly thereafter with one of my son's friends; to his credit, it was only needed once.
While I've done this kind of thing before, it was never on this scale. A friend and I shepherded our two kids and one other through the Metropolitan in NYC last year, but that was nothing in comparison. I got the distinct feeling of what it must be like for the Secret Service; constantly scanning for your charges, and also looking for potential problems. I do not mean to compare my task to that of protecting the President, but the analogy applies. One looks for potential issues, and looks to head them off before they even arise. In my case, I also learned to count to ten VERY quickly.
Two hours at the Museum of Science pass quickly; the place is undeniably cool, and the kids enjoyed it. We then pile back into the buses, count heads, and head downtown for a brown-bag lunch on the Common before we start on a part of the Freedom Trail.
The Boston Common is the oldest public park in America; 44 acres of green surrounded by history and high-rise. A lovely spot, and one, like any other such urban space on a nice day is inhabited by both the fortunate, and those less so. Under the category of staving off situations before they become problems, we manage our charges, eat lunch, and proceed along the Trail for forty-five minutes of walking history.
For those who have not done so, the Freedom Trail is required walking for anyone with an interest in American history. It winds through Boston, taking you past many of the seminal locations of the Revolution; the Old North Church, the Granary Burial Grounds, and Faneuil Hall are just a few of the stops along the way.
Anything that winds through Boston winds through Boston traffic as well. Boston traffic is justifiably the stuff of legend; narrow, centuries-old routes do not lend themselves well to modern vehicular traffic, and the Boston driver compensates with acts of automotive lunacy. Lights that are red for longer than a few seconds are usually considered broken, and let's not even get into highway conditions. This all can make pedestrian travel hazardous; one wonders why pedestrians aren't stacked up on the curb like cordwood. This merits mention only because one of our young ladies might not have paid full attention to admonitions about street-crossing, and had to absorb a rather sharp warning to retrurn to the (relative) safety of the sidewalk.
We reach Faneuil Hall/Quincy Market uninjured, and with all our number. We now have about forty-five minutes to wander about, surrounded by the sights and smells of a simply wonderful combination of urban mall and open-air market; everything from Abercrombie & Fitch to the cheapest dreck imaginable is readily available, and it has to be Boston's premier tourist attraction.
A brief aside; I have nothing but brothers, and have raised nothing but sons. I did not understand even remotely the teenaged American female when I was a teenager myself, and nothing has occurred in my life since then to add to that understanding.
This shortcoming becomes particularly evident when it comes to the retail experience. I am blessed to have married a woman who does not treat shopping as sport; Bride certainly is particular, and chooses purchases with care, but she is decisive and blissfully quick when it comes to shopping, and I am forever grateful for it. Her characteristics in this regard, sadly, are not universally-embraced by the modern American teenager, male or female.
We enter an American Eagle store.
Good God.
My chaperone compatriot wisely suggests we split the group on a gender basis, rapidly (and correctly) appraising that I am simply not up to the task of keeping up with the young ladies. Sadly, I'm not a hell of a lot better with the guys; they're flying from pillar to post. With the boys, at least, I'm able to communicate the notion that we have a finite amount of time to get done before we have to head to our final stop of the day, the IMAX theater at the nearby New England Aquarium, and we complete our retail therapy.
A sea of yellow shirts converges upon our last stop, and as we're being queued up for entrance to the movie, a sizable usher commands silence, asking if (insert name here) is in the crowd. No response. After accounting for our ten, and watching teachers fan out in search of the missing student, we enter the theater. After the movie, I'm told that the missing girl was indeed in the crowd; she simply hadn't been paying attention, had fallen in with some friends outside her specific travel group, and that neither occurrence was a particular surprise. Maybe not a surprise, but definitely the type of thing that keeps one awake at night.
After the movie, we pile back onto the buses, have one more successful head count, and begin to leave for home. All the kids are safely headed back to their rightful owners, and this chaperone can finally relax after what is now becoming a fairly long day.
Not so much.
Put 60 or so 12-14 year-olds in a confined space, completely jacked-up from the adrenaline of the day, not to mention the normal hormonal conflagrations resulting from such close confines, and the result is pure, unaldulterated cacaphony. Interminable story short? The notion of resting on the way home is fantasy, and the din of the crew, bouncing around the inside of the bus like a BB in a tin can, is trying. God bless him, Son #1 falls out in minutes, leaving me only the relative solace of Lewis Black on the Walkman amid a sea of chattering, wildly-texting kids.
The point of all of this? While George Bernard Shaw may well have been right, thank God the young have their youth. Without it, they'd never survive shopping. As for Mr. Twain, we shall see.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)