| Confessions of a pushy parent |
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Zip it, soccer moms and football dads! Let the coach, you know, coach!by This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it Now that fall is in full swing, it’s hard not to get caught up in the football frenzy going on around town. There’s excitement in the air, with some serious showdowns coming up. I’m talking about Pee Wee sports. On any given Saturday, you might see the Cowboys vs. the Colts, or the Aggies vs. the Longhorns. Not the pros, or the college players, or even the high-school kids — but teams consisting entirely of 6- to 12-year-old boys. Who knew? Not me. I grew up with all girls in the house, and my home now is almost the same: We have four girls and one boy, but my stepson went through the youth sports stage long before I married his dad. My daughters and I entered this strange world when they became cheerleaders for one of the teams — and I officially became a pushy parent. Before I go any further, I have to admit that I wanted to be a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader when I was a kid in the late ’70s. Sure, the costumes were cute, and getting all dolled up was part of the draw. But I was more tomboy than girly-girl. In my young mind, nothing else compared to being on the field, watching my beloved Cowboys play — and for free, at that. It was the same reason I wanted to be a referee, but I dumped that idea once I realized they got banged up pretty bad out there. I did get to be a mini-majorette in third grade, but by the time I entered high school, when the real cheerleading began back in my day, there wasn’t enough money to go around for braces, prom dresses, choir uniforms and cheerleader camps, too. So I gave up my dream. Fast-forward a few decades, and now my 4- and 6-year-old girls are doing what I’d always wanted to do, except they’ll be rooting for a pint-sized team. And that’s where things got interesting and I became the type of parent coaches probably hate — the kind who may be living vicariously through her kid and who doesn’t know when to sit down and shut up. First off, I swore I wouldn’t enroll them in any activities they didn’t want to be in. So I let them pick. They had other options, such as soccer or basketball. They’d done gymnastics and dance before, and at those performances I was as quiet as a church mouse. Once their cheer practices began, however, let’s just say I got involved. I became a mom on a mission: to serve and protect. Coach on Day One: This is my first time coaching, so be patient with me as I try to get organized and learn some of the moves that go with the cheers. What I said: If you need help with anything, don’t hesitate to ask. What I meant: Give me a list of all the cheerleaders, parents, e-mail addresses and other contact info. I’ll set up a listserve, Web site, photo gallery and blog. Coach during another practice: OK, girls, it’s time to stretch. Line up. One, two ... What I did: Jumped right into their formation to spray my girls — and the rest of the cheer squad — with bug repellent. The coach looked at me with an expression that clearly said, "Oh, no, she didn’t!" (Oh, yes, I did.) What I should have done: Spritzed my girls before we left home; offered bug spray to other moms so they could administer it to their own children. I’m ashamed to say that I even inserted myself into some of the cheers. The cheerleaders to the opposing team: From all of us to all of you, a big hello and good luck, too. From ... What I said: Felicia! What should have been said: The name of a "real" cheerleader. (OK, I did that to get one of the girls back in a happy mood; she didn’t feel like cheering, but obviously I did.) But hey, it wasn’t just me, not that I’m justifying my behavior. The cheerleaders: Firecracker, firecracker, boom, boom, boom. Firecracker, firecracker, boom, boom, boom. The boys have the muscles, the teachers have the brains, the girls have the sexy legs, and we won the game. What one mom said to the coach: My husband would freak if my daughter said "sexy." She’s too young. What I said: Yeah, mine can’t say the s-word either. We need to say "pretty legs." What we should have done: Called the coach later on to express our concern, or I could have at least talked to her in private. (She was cool with the change to "pretty," by the way.) Think those were the only incidents? Puh-leeze. Each day brought something new from the parents, whether we were telling the girls to yell louder, instructing them on the proper way to kneel, or telling the coach what we wanted the girls to wear. And they hadn’t even had their first game yet. Soccer moms, I have heard, are no different. Neither are the basketball boosters. Football dads, however, are in a league of their own. Coach X, who shall remain anonymous, says he has been physically threatened by dads upset with him for not giving their sons more playing time, or for having them play two positions if there aren’t enough players. "There’s lots of screaming and yelling going on," Coach X says. Most of it is directed not at the action on the field, but at him. "What’s disappointing is that I’m being disrespected, and I’m not even getting paid to do this." So here’s where I say, "I’m sorry," to all the youth association coaches out there, on behalf of pushy parents like me. From now on, I vow to do the following: 1. Let the coaches, um, coach. If I want to do your job, I’ll sign up next year. 2. Realize that you are not a paid professional and that many of you are also parents who just want to spend time with your children. 3. Offer solutions, rather than criticize or complain. 4. Ask myself if my child’s activity is more about me than her. 5. Ask my child if she’s having fun. If she says "No," I have to respect that. 6. Not zap the fun right out of my kid’s experience. 7. Not embarrass my child by screaming at her or by disrespecting the coach. 8. Relax and enjoy the game, win, lose or draw. So far, I’ve made good on my promise. At their first game, I sat quietly on the sidelines, watched their performance and just mouthed the words to their cheers. And I kept my mouth closed when the opposing squad seemed to have better routines. But watch out. If one of my girls ever ends up becoming a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, well, all bets are off.
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