Parents watching their kids play sports isn’t a good mix. Seriously. It just doesn’t make sense. Why put so much pressure on yourself? Admittedly, the game has absolutely nothing to do with me, I’m just a spectator, but it is so about me.
When my kids were small and on organized baseball teams it was fun to watch. But as they grew older and climbed the little league ladder…OMG. When I found out my son was suppose to pitch I was beside myself. The weight of the entire game rested on his shoulders, which meant, of course, it rested on mine as well.
Those days have come and gone and although I do miss the excitement, today as I attended a 3 on 3 basketball tournament in which both of my teenage sons were participating, all those feelings came flooding in again. Maybe it’s a good thing it doesn’t happen very often these days. It’s not so much that I cared if they won or not. It was more about them doing well and feeling good about themselves and how they played, and about not getting hurt…you know, the trip to the emergency room kind of hurt. And today, more so about the mother of a boy who was on the opposing team, and oh yeah, about those older guys who were twice my boys’ ages, and twice as big, and rough and not once did they call a “cardinal foul”, and… Yup, those mother bear instincts are alive and well and living inside.
Later, as I was reflecting on the outcome of the games that were played in that gym, I ran across this quote, “Life is a narrative that you have a hand in writing”. That is so true…and I wouldn’t have it any other way.