Kicking and Screaming

(Editor’s Note: The following is an excerpt from Bryan Allain’s yet to be finished book, Prayers For Blowouts. To join in on the discussion of the frequent collisions of sports and faith, check out his website at prayersforblowouts.com.)

My son Parker has been obsessed with sports since he was four years old. I’m sure I am mostly to blame. Like most preschool-aged boys, his attention span in almost any situation lasts about as long as it takes to microwave a bag of popcorn. Sit still through an entire meal? No chance. We consider it a success if he makes it through the blessing without getting distracted.

Something changes, however, when he watches sports. Flip on a game and suddenly he’s as focused as Tiger Woods on the Sunday back nine.

On the other hand, my six-year-old daughter Kylie, has never shown an affinity for sports. Given the option of watching ESPN or getting booster shots, she’d need some time to think about it. Imagine our surprise, then, when we asked her if she was interested in playing soccer and she said “yes”. Though we knew her eagerness to play had everything to do with socializing and nothing to do with wanting to be the next Brandi Chastain (keep that shirt on), we jumped at the chance to get her involved.

Unlike the team’s incumbent players, Kylie had no idea what she was doing. Having never seen a soccer game on television, the flow of the game was a mystery to her. Coaching instructions like “Get back on defense” and “turn it up field” could have been shouted in English or Pig Latin - either way they meant nothing to her.

But she wasn’t the only person coming in to the season without experience. I was a rookie, and her first soccer season also marked my first time as a sports parent. While she was on the pitch learning the difference between offense and defense, I was navigating the confusing emotions that come from watching your child compete against other people’s kids. The need to protect her, the drive to help her improve, and the desire to see her succeed all took on a new meaning. Previously harmless playmates morphed into little menaces intent on stealing the ball, and the joy, away from my little girl. It didn’t take all of my willpower to stop from tripping the first-grader who was trying to take the ball from Kylie; I know better. But, the thought did occur to me.

I never intended to be one of those parents coaching from the bleachers, but during her first scrimmage, that’s exactly what happened. Kylie seemed to be enjoying herself on the field, but she was never where she was supposed to be. Worse, she had no interest in taking the ball from the opposing team. As a parent, I would generally encourage such a strong aversion to stealing, but soccer without stealing is like running a business without taking money from your customers. It doesn’t work. I spent most of the first half yelling from the sideline. “KYLIE, GO GET THE BALL!”…”KYLIE GET BACK ON DEFENSE!”…”KYLIE, DONT BE AFRAID TO GRAB THAT LITTLE PUNK’S JERSEY AND TRIP HIM THE NEXT TIME HE GETS BY YOU!” I was like a younger - but much better looking - Lou Piniella. My voice was almost gone by halftime.

At the end of the scrimmage I introduced myself to Kylie’s coach and asked him if he had a problem with me ‘coaching’ my daughter from the sidelines. “It’s your kid,” he told me, “as long as you’re not contradicting what I’m saying, you can do whatever you want.”
I couldn’t stop thinking about his comments as we drove home that night. She’s my kid. I’m her dad. These weren’t new concepts to me, of course, but it seemed like I had forgotten them when Kylie was playing. The more I thought about my actions, the more disappointed I became in myself. Did I really spend 40 minutes screaming coaching tips at my daughter during an exhibition game? If this was how I acted during a practice, how would I act during a real game?

I did some quick math. Between Kylie and Parker, I had another 12 to 15 years of sideline parenting in my future. At my current pace, I was about eight months from a lifetime youth soccer ban. I closed my eyes to clear the thought from my head, but it was replaced by the image of a front-page headline on CNN.com: “Out of Control Soccer Parent Tasered in Neck”. Not wanting to be the next YouTube celebrity for getting assaulted by the local sheriff, I knew I needed to make a change.

At Kylie’s next practice I tried a different approach: I sat there and kept my mouth shut. When she ran away from the ball in fear, I said nothing. When she roamed the field aimlessly like an Israelite wandering in the desert, I said nothing. When she forgot she was on defense, costing her team a goal, I said nothing. The only coaching tips I offered were given quietly on the sidelines. Kylie didn’t seem to miss my previous coaching style, and it seemed like was more receptive to the advice her coach was giving her on the field. Driving home that evening I noticed that my mind, and my throat, felt better than the week before. I was convinced I had learned a valuable lesson: as a parent watching your kids play sports, there’s never a need to yell.

***

Kylie’s first soccer season turned out to be a lot of fun. She was still afraid to steal the ball at season’s end, but made noticeable improvement every week. As a bonus, I now know I can strike “no shoplifting” from my future parenting points. I’m proud to say I made it through the season without being tasered or even embarrassing myself on the sidelines.

In fact, I can only recall only one incident where I did get a little out of control. It was the last game of the regular season and Kylie was playing center forward. Her team was advancing the ball when Kylie caught a pass. She kicked the ball towards the goal, and as it made its way to the net, I noticed saw one of her teammates squaring it up. He was going to score instead of her! For a second I thought about screaming his name to distract him, but the vision of a mustachioed sheriff reaching for his taser kept my lips sealed.

The punk threatening to steal Kylie’s goal cocked his leg as the ball approached and unleashed a huge kick. The thing is, he missed the ball. He completely whiffed. And the ball kept rolling…and rolling…until it rolled right into the net. She scored! It was her first and only goal of the season.

With tears in my eyes I jumped to my feet and cheered wildly. Kylie’s coach, knowing how far she had come since the beginning of the year, yelled over to us. “I have chills!” he said, pointing to his arms.

As I screamed and clapped for my daughter, I realized the lesson I learned after her first practice wasn’t true at all. Sometimes when you’re watching your kids play sports, you just have to yell.