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For some, it’s the longest walk they will ever make, the trek from the parking lot to the field.
Some will think “they grow up so fast” as their kid – new cleats, clean uniform – jumps out of the car and runs toward the sound of other kids laughing and yelling. You’ve dropped your kid off at school before, but that was different … you figured it was for the best. After all, what did you know about teaching reading and writing and arithmetic? There are some things you can’t do for your kid.
But sports? Surely you can. After all, you were pretty good in the day, right? Well, except for the first few years when you were afraid of the ball, but you came around. You’ve been prepping your kid for years, too. The first clothes you bought your kid had the logos of your favorite team. Your favorite picture of your baby was the one where they were propped up on the couch holding the red rubber football.
You think about respect. Granted, you don’t like the guy who is going to be coaching your kid. You’ve seen the way he yells at his own kid … a 7 year old who has no clue how to play goalie and likely never will at the rate he’s going. But you rationalize the situation. The coach is making a sacrifice for the kids. After all, you couldn’t do it this year.
To your right you see the concession stand, where Mrs. Smith is awkwardly turning hot dogs on a grill. You know Mrs. Smith. She’s a Wall Street banker and has a taste for fine French foods. You went to dinner with her and her husband and a few other couples a few months back. She wore a mink. Now she’s wearing a booster T-shirt and getting yelled at for extra mustard, and she couldn’t be happier. She won’t do it again, but she’s glad to play a part.
My kid is concerned that we won’t find the field. Relax, I said, you just look for the group that has the same color shirt as you. Besides, we’re early … there’s still time for a little extra advice.
“Be aggressive,” I tell my son. “OK, Dad,” he replies. Then he pauses. Something is wrong.
“Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“What does ‘aggressive’ mean?”
I explain to him that it means putting the ball in the back of the net whenever he has a clear shot, but I am interrupted by another parent. Her kid is in blue … not the red my kid is clad in.
“Excuse me … but I think we’re playing you today. Do you know where the field is?”
“You’ll find it,” my kid says. “Just look for the colors.”
He looks at the other kid and offers more advice.
“Hey … be aggressive.”
In a world where there are too many rules, it’s always fun to remember this about sports … don’t ever overthink it and always enjoy yourself. The uniforms will get dirty and the cuts and scrapes will come, but the memories will last a lifetime.
Readers: This is sportswriter Mark Vasto’s final column.
(c) 2016 King Features Synd., Inc.
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