Until It Hurts

I sometimes yell at my son from the sidelines during his house league soccer games.  I send out my words of instruction and encouragement, while his ears pick up the contradictory instructions of several shouting parents and a blend of high pitched, emotionally charged gibberish, followed by his name.  I don't know what Thomas thinks of the yelling.  I never stopped to consider his opinion of all this parental screaming.  It is cathartic for me.  I enjoy it.  It makes me feel like I am part of the action, and to some degree, that I have control over what is happening on the field.  I also love my son, and believe it to be my duty as a father figure to become slightly unhinged during the game - within reason, of course.

Mark Hyman, author of the book, Until It Hurts, caused me to think about my need to experience the games with my son in a new way.  His book deals with how adults have taken over the games of children and have organized them to the detriment of the children they are supposedly helping.  He tells the stories of kids getting Tommy John (ligament replacement) surgery in their teens, or suffering from other overuse injuries, brought on by sports specialization that comes to kids much too early in life these days.  He tells the story of the growth of the Little League World Series from a neighborhood event to an annual ESPN/ABC event, primarily produced for the profit of adults and the ego-feeding of parents who are living life through their children's accomplishments.  The author himself is guilty of becoming caught up in his own son's major league potential, and he laments how this fantasy separated him from his money and ultimately, from the reality that his son was just a boy, and not a professional baseball prospect at the tender age of 10.  The man has some guilt, and he is happy to share.

My parents didn't come to many of my Little League games, and I can hardly blame them.  I was awful.  In one particularly haunting memory, I stole 2nd base.  My big moment of glory was shattered by my teammate, Kevin, who already occupied 2nd base at the time.  In fact, I had been so happy to have finally reached 1st base (I think I was hit by a pitch, which was as good as a hit for me in those days), that I neglected to notice that the bases were loaded with no one out...yet.  My base running enthusiasm quickly changed that scenario.  My signature blunder led to a triple play, a rare feat in the Little League, as I recall.  I am certain that the parents there to witness this spectacle were yelling fitful shouts of gibberish, followed by my name.  I can't say for sure.  To this day, the only discernible sound in my memory is Kevin Berrigan, looking down at me sliding into his feet as he stood on 2nd base, screaming, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING???"

On the occasions that my father did attend my games, he often reminded me with his special brand of emotionally charged gibberish, followed by my name, that I should stop "stepping in the bucket" when at the plate.  I was too embarrassed at the time to ask what the hell the bucket was, and apparently, it should have been so obvious to me what the hell the bucket was that my dad never saw fit to explain it to me.  No matter.  I was never destined to suffer from overuse injuries or a loss of childhood innocence because of my athletic prowess.  And I figured out what the bucket was approximately 15 years after my final Little League at bat.

Mark Hyman's book did make me wonder, however, about the other kids, the ones with talent and promise.  Are we too tough on them, or are we teaching competition and perseverance and team work and commitment?  Where is the line between indulging kids, living our lives through their accomplishments, and teaching valuable life lessons through sports?  According to Hyman. the line is somewhere just before the doctor recommends Tommy John surgery for your 15 year old, and well before the point where you as the parent begin to consider it.  That seems to be as good a line as any.