When I found myself the mother of two active boys who had no interest in dance and who had been asked not to return to AVA art classes, my husband suggested we see what the town recreation department was offering. Thus began our life on the red team.
There were several teams and sports, but we were always the red because they practiced closest to our house. This saved on laundry and uniforms, too. T-ball was first; there were years of toddlers, parent coaches and picnic suppers while encouraging our little athletes. Clueless, I copied everyone else and said what they said. Nice job! Good try! Later, I drilled my husband on what our son did specifically that was good, why it was good, how it was good and what I should be looking for next time.
Then, came soccer — still the red team, and son No. 2 wore the shirt. I never got the hang of the rules. I was able to be heard over others telling them how great they were doing, which I figured was more important.
Then came basketball. I actually like basketball, and watching my kids play really got me going. They were right in front of me, and I could holler and cheer; it was like a workout! Once they began playing for their school, they ignored me completely, which I found quite rude considering how many hours I was in labor with each of them, (12, 24 and 14 hours, respectively), and I told them so. Often.
I found other parents to sit with and do our own color commentary. Then, two things happened that had a profound impact on my spectator behavior.
First, my son began playing college soccer.
College soccer is hardcore. If you are on the sidelines, you can feel the wind they create buzz by your face. They smash into each other full speed, and if the other man falls on the ground, they step over him and keep going. No one takes a knee. No whistle is blown. Even his teammates leave him there. He can be flat out not moving, and the ref moves along.
Eventually, the guy gets up and hobbles back into action. After that happens a few times and then you see sweet moves like when a kid falls but then keeps the ball in play from the ground as he gets up, you realize this isn’t the red team anymore.
My cheering adjusted accordingly. My kid was toe-to-toe with a guy right up and down the side by me; elbows were flying, chests were bumping, and no whistles. Adrenalin and testosterone were palpable.
I said, “YO! Get him, get him, deny, deny, deny, ruin his day!” which I still stand by to this moment as that was the object, thank you very much. Afterward, I was asked to please be less violent by my son. I was confused.
Second thing that happened was my daughter began playing serious hoop. like AAU and the Karp’s Klassic back-to-back. The games were scrappy and fast-paced. One night at a game, I was sitting with the principal of a local school at the time and I was screaming to my daughter to get on her man and stay on her, and he turned to me and repeated what I’d said in horror.
I was baffled. They were playing man-to-man defense. He was saying, “Yahoo, you’re doing a great job!” which we were wayyyyyy past at this point.
The girls were approaching high school. They were leaving skin on the court; they were fighting for the ball with their teeth bared. This ain’t your mama’s basketball.
I decided to dispense with my other favorite line, “Get on her like a cheap suit!” He made me start to question myself; I wondered if this was what my son meant. But I didn’t say, “Punch her in the throat!” so what was the issue? (I never would have said that.)
I solved that problem by moving away from him to a different spot.
All in all, I’ve spent two decades driving to games smelling nasty cleats and raggedy high-tops, caught colds from touching germ-infested mouthguards, and for what? To be told I was a little too intense. I could be driving my midlife crisis Mustang in Batgirl black right now if I hadn’t spent all that money on sports for those crumbsnatchers. If I go to a game and I want to cut loose a little, I should be able to do it.
Only problem is that now that I am 50, I can’t see far away and I am not totally certain when my kid is actually playing.
Next time they ask me to come to their game, I might just head to the dealership instead.
Deb Beaupre writes periodically on sports from the parental point-of-view despite the fact that she once referred to uniforms as costumes. She lives in Meriden.