After spending seven seasons on the sidelines of one of South Jersey’s worst basketball programs, I decided to hang up my whistle in favor of a more relaxed winter season during which I could watch as much college hoops as I wanted, see daylight on a regular basis, and, if the mood struck, flip the power switch on the ol’ Playstation 2.

Sadly, that feeling of William Wallace-esque freedom lasted exactly one calendar year before I decided to pick the whistle back up.

As a youth hoops referee.

Now, when I was still coaching, I prided myself on being the progenitor of some of the area’s finest sarcastic yet non-ejection worthy banter with officials.

I’d clap unnecessarily loudly.

I’d mime hanging myself with my tie.

I’d make up interpretive dance moves involving the traveling signal.

I’d even go so far as to throw in non sequiturs like, “Hey, where’d you go to college?” or “What do you feed your dog (copyright to Ace Ventura: Pet Detective)?”

The point is that I was everything officials hated about coaches.

And now I’m everything I hate about, well, myself.

However, such an existential realization was not the most important lesson I learned when I traded my basketball print tie collection for the prescribed all black attire of my local officiating board.

No, no. What has been the most rewarding part of my now three-year officiating career has nothing to do with the coaches, the players, or with learning more about the game.  It has come in the form of my association with youth sports’ parents.

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The summer league for which I work has blossomed into one of the finest in the area and boasts some of the better talent in South Jersey. The league’s director opened his two gymnasiums to children ranging in age from 8-16 in an array of different divisions, all of which add up to big bucks for said director. Couple all that with the fact that there are teams from low-rent, almost poverty-stricken areas playing against private school juggernauts, and therein lies a recipe for a sociological experiment from which even George Herbert Mead could benefit.

Now, as I channel my inner Dave Zinkoff, here is the starting lineup for the Youth Sports’ Parents all-star team:

The embroidered shirt dad (ESD)—This prototype has enjoyed some level of success in basketball and is proud to show off his dry fit coaching shirt with accompanying logo of a fire-breathing dragon, devout friar, or any resident of the animal kingdom.  He’s not on the sidelines because he “just doesn’t want to get involved” and prefers to yell only at his son while the coach is instructing the other four players on the court. Smug, self-assured, and ready to offer advice to coaches and officials alike, the embroidered-shirt dad is already courting prep schools for his son’s services—in ten years.

The single-mom-it-all (SMIA)—The single-mom-it-all sits, almost exclusively, in the front row, usually toting any number of other kids with a watchful eye.  Because she’s been to so many sporting events in support of her kids, she’s picked up, and is ready to use, the preferred lexicon for each sport.  Among the favorite phrases to yell during youth basketball games: Three Seconds, Offensive, That’s a reach, and Over the top.  Of these four: three seconds is rarely called at any level, offensive fouls are equally as rare and very much subjective, reaching isn’t a foul per se, and much like holding in the NFL, happens on pretty much every possession, and over the top doesn’t exist in the rules and regulations of organized basketball.

For a more practical example of the single-mom-it-all I offer the following cautionary tale.

In the waning seconds of a 28-7 loss (yes, you read that score correctly) in her son’s 5^th and 6^th grade summer league game last week, a layup was scored by the losing team.  Now, the score should have read 28-9, but, sadly, in the hysteria of such an exciting game, the 9^th grade scoregirl forgot to add the last bucket.  As I stretched in preparation for the following game, I was fortunate enough to hear the SMIA screaming at the dumbfounded scorekeeper.

SMIA: IT’S 9! WE JUST SCORED! HOW COULD YOU HAVE MISSED THAT! (looking askance at several bewildered onlookers) SERIOUSLY, DID ANYONE SEE THAT? HELLLLLO?

As the horn sounded, she stood up and offered one final barb to the huddled masses, “These are kids! Every point matters to kids. I don’t understand why she wouldn’t put it up?”

When her son begrudgingly acknowledged his overzealous mom’s existence, she told him she was proud of him and that she knew the score should have read 9 even if no one else did.

That’s my kid out there (TMKOT) mom/dad—The only parent prototype to rival the SMIA in overall distaste, this parent, regardless of gender, makes it known which kid is his/hers on every possession.  Often the encouragement (for moms) or disgust (for dads) is accompanied by the player’s number or some term of endearment.

Witness.

TMKOT mom:  Get the ball, baby! That’s it, boo. Take it all the way, sweetie!

TMKOT dad: C’mon #11, you gotta rebound that ball! Connor, will you please take care of the ball for god’s sake? How many times do we have to talk about reversing the ball, #6?

Taken in exclusivity, these parents wouldn’t be all that stomach churning, but wait until their kid tries to go coast to coast (thanks, And 1 franchise) only to go careening into a defender whilst throwing up a ridiculous out-of-control shot before crashing to the floor with the kind of thud that can only happen in a gymnasium.

Witness.

TMKOT (either incarnation): HEY REF! C’MON THAT’S A FOUL! SOMEONE’S GONNA GET HURT OUT THERE! YOU GOTTA GET CONTROL! THAT KID IS OUT TO HURT MY KID!

The most oxymoronic facet of the TMKOT parent is in his ability to disavow everything that happens until it happens to his kid. So, if the two teams engage in a reenactment of the Battle of Falkirk while his kid is on the bench, it’s fine. But even if his kid is the perpetrator of a hard foul, it’s the official’s fault for not clairvoyantly expecting that foul and “getting control” of the court.

The generic-instruction parent (GIP)—Even as I write this, I can’t help but feel really bad for these parents and their kids.  The GIP is at a marked disadvantage because he just doesn’t know enough about the game to really provide sideline or dinner table leadership, so he must resort to using an amalgam of phrases he knows are germane to the sport even if those phrases become repetitious and counterproductive.  I do give these parents credit for paying attention to commonalities in the game, to oft used coaching expressions, and to ESPN anchor lingo, but when I’m sprinting back and forth during my third game in a row in a sweaty, overcrowded gymnasium, their reinforcement can become grating.

The GIP’s preferred set of in-game instructions, followed by assumed child responses in parentheses, would include: go (where?), you guys gotta move (how?), screen (whom?), get him (and then what, dad?), who’s got shooter? (uh, what?), and finally, someone’s gotta talk out there (what do we say?)

In the end, the GIP means well, but perhaps his kid would be more comfortable in an arena that didn’t involve a ball.

My kid will provide me with the athletic glory I so desperately sought as a child parent (MKWPMWTAGISDSAACP)—Though I’m not comfortable using this acronym, I’m equally as uncomfortable crossing paths with the MKWPMWTAGISDSAACP. To be fair, there are two types of this parent. The first is wholly unaware of the damage he is causing to his kid who, like his father before him, has little chance of etching his name in the pantheon of great local athletes. The second is far more disturbing because this MKWPMWTAGISDSAACP has consciously eschewed the responsibility of causing irreparable harm to his child in an attempt to have a living trophy to show off at his 20 year reunion. Take that (insert star athlete’s name)!

Unable to let go, the MKWPMWTAGISDSAACP continues to trot his kid out to an array of athletic venues without concern for perpetual failure, certain injury, and justified resentment issues.

Essentially, what we’re dealing with is an ABC After School Special, approximately fifteen years of leather couch therapy, and an infinite amount of self-loathing all wrapped up in a 4’6, 65 pound 5^th grade package of overcompensation.

For those readers who’d like to offer further examples of the disintegration of youth athletics through insane parent stereotypes, please email us at athletes@almostathletes.com.

One Response to “Hey, That’s My Kid Out There: A Cautionary Tale”

1. BigDaddy Sam says:

   06/29/2009 at 5:33 pm

   You’ve perfectly captured my weekend in “tournament” baseball parent hell. Three cheers for those who don’t make Brian’s list!