by Brian

No, I meant stud with the ladies! Common mistake.

Alright, as much as I hate to admit it, my man crush, Jayson Werth, is not a big-time player.  Despite my t-shirt bearing his likeness and the slogan, “Werth is money,” despite my unnatural desire to invade Olde City with him for an evening, and despite my lackluster ability to grow a beard in his honor, he just can’t carry a team.  Instead of spitting stats that we all know are accurate and ominous, we can just agree that sometimes guys are good only because of other guys (an Utley-Howard opener makes his job as headliner much easier); however, elite players are those who are great in spite of other players, circumstances, or support. The bearded heartthrob has been catapulted into the cleanup spot because, and only because, of injury and has done nothing to make us stop putting X’s on each day that passes until the Big Piece gets back.

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I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in young athletes of every race, sport, and, above all, talent level.

Slow walking.

As a coach and official for 11 of our calendar’s 12 months, I am privy to all kinds of student athletes—born leaders, playing-because-dad-makes-me kids, guys who are unaware of how good, or bad, they really are, AAU lunatics, and disproportionate body shaped players in the wrong sport. No matter at what school, gym, or field I find myself, the slow walkers are taking over. You know the type. They wear open-toed Nike sandals with or without socks as they walk into the gym. They have a drawstring Under Armour backpack, which holds little more than their cell phones, strapped in place. They have two or three pairs of socks or shorts on for reasons that still escape me. They have half-opened eyelids as if looking and walking at the same time is taking every ounce of their athleticism. And they are invariably, unquestionably, unequivocally average players. I officiate a summer basketball league that features kids from 3-4 grade through the JV level. One JV player in particular embodies everything I just outlined about the slow walker. (1) He’s a junior on JV, which isn’t shameful at its surface depending on the school and program (2) It’s a summer league (3) He’s the fourth best player on his team though he’s the point guard and his father is the head coach (4) He’s a junior on JV.  As a result, I propose the following edict—athletes must walk at a rate that is in direct proportion to their actual skill level. So if you are an awful player, whether you know it or not, you should be sprinting to every position, every game, and every post game speech.  If you’re a blue-chip, division I, future pro, go ahead and drag your feet across the suburban high school gym while you convince yourself that people are watching you, which inspires you to walk even more slowly. Those of you athletes in the middle of these two extremes, I’ll race you to the other side of the field.

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While I didn’t listen to Eagle Corp.’s “state of the team address,” and never will, I did hear the speech’s Cliffs Notes, and I’ll only address what we all know is obvious.  Owner Jeff Lurie, much like the entire brass, just doesn’t get it.  Regarding Mike Vick’s 1,342^nd chance in the league, Lurie admitted that Vick shouldn’t have been at the now infamous party but, meh, he didn’t pull the trigger; plus, Vick is now the proud owner of the completely useless distinction of being the organization’s greatest first year player “in terms of the community.”

Alright, Michael. But one more time and you're in big trouble, mister. I mean it!

Um, what choice did he have? And what does this say about countless other Birds who worked in the community because they felt it a necessary part of their career? Or because they genuinely care about people and animals?  Furthermore, why are we spending so much time discussing the backup quarterback, ostensibly, of a team who is no better than 8^th in the NFC? Why is this ownership and front office so woefully disconnected from its fan base?  Why am I driving up my word count on this issue?

Thank God for fantasy football and survivor pools.

One of the greastest running backs in the history of the NFL retired well before he should have, but Barry Sanders made sure he left something behind…his son.  Barry James Sanders is following in his father’s footsteps and making a name for himself, well before his father ever did.

Barry James Sanders, son of Barry Sanders, making a name for himself at Heritage Hall High School.

The young Sanders, a sophomore at Heritage Hall High School in Oklahoma, was turning heads as a freshman.  In the 2008 season, Sanders helped his team – which consisted of 15 seniors – to a perfect season.  Sanders’ kid rushed for 742 yards and 12 touchdowns on 89 carries (watch this run) while helping his school go 15-0 and capture the 2008 Oklahoma 2A state title.

However, Heritage head coach Andy Bogert knew he had something special well before Sanders’ freshman year.  Bogert was excited when he heard a son of Barry Sanders would be joining his team – who wouldn’t be – but he wanted to be sure he was the real deal.  So Bogert checked him out at a junior high game…he only needed to see three plays.  The first carry Barry James Sanders got went for 80 yards.  The second, 60 yards.  The third, 65 yards.  That was enough for Bogert.

The youngster resembles his father in every way, but there are a few differences.  While he his humble like his dad, he is much more talkative and loves to joke around.  And he is a little bigger than Barry is.  He measures up at 5-11, 180 lbs – that’s three inches taller than dad.    The 15-year-old, who turns 16 in April, has his fathers elusiveness, ability to stop on a dime, and field vision, but seems to be more of an upright runner than his father and has some power too.  Oh yeah, and there’s that whole forty time thing…which he runs in a 4.44 (at 15 years old).

Barry Sanders kept true to form when talking about his son, humbly claiming there is not much he can teach him about football.  Sanders prefers to be a father rather than a coach, and wants to focus on helping Barry James make the right decisions off the field.  Sanders explained that the choices he makes on the field are easy, its the ones that he will make off it that he wants to help out with.

One big decision the young Sanders will have is which sport to play.  Not only does he dominate the football field, but Barry James isn’t too bad on the baseball diamond either.  He is a talented outfielder and has said that he will decided which sport to play by seeing which one he has more success in (I pray its football).  No one is claiming him to be as good as his father, because after all, it’s just high school football…but the comparisons are certainly there.  I could only hope to watch some running back hand out season-ending injuries (Rod Woodson – which was so bad its not available online) or make defenders look like complete idiots (Harlon Barnett – #42 for the Patriots in this highlight video) with nothing but his jukes and have the name “Sanders” on the back of his jersey…again.

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.

After three years of reffing, I kind of understand this guy.

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.

I think this guy was at my game last night. His son walked home.

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.