The Monster Within....

We've all seen and heard stories of overzealous sports dads. Most of us say, "Oh, that's terrible!" and we shake our heads and pride ourselves on our better judgement. Then something happens that make you realize just how fine the line is between engaged, teaching parent and raving lunatic nutjob parent. This weekend, I saw the line, and kicked grass on it.

I was not athletic as a child. Gangly and in need of glasses, I was possibly the worst ball player on the worst team in our Knothole League. I can remember my Dad's frustration with me at times. "Keep your eye on the ball!", he would bark from behind the cage. The problem was my eyes were so bad, I couldn't see the pitcher clearly let alone the damn ball. At the time, I thought the kids on the mound were throwing some serious heat, because I never saw the ball unless it hit me...which it often did. Over time, it became obvious I needed glasses, but that year marked the beginning of the end for me and ball based sports. It was my decision, but years later, I regret quitting. I wish I had kept playing.

I quit because I was intimidated because I sucked and because I really didn't know that much about the games. I had a zero sports IQ. With my son, he may or may not play, but I want him to understand the basics of many sports. And so it was, that this past weekend, I found myself playing catch with my 4 year old. One day was baseball, and the next day was football. His schedule...not mine. There's no organized training regimen yet.

My son's catching technique is the same for both sports, just add a glove for baseball. Hands palm up, arms out, elbows bent. Kinda like he is carrying an imaginary armload of wood. He then makes a scooping motion with his arms. If its football, he sometimes traps the ball against his body. If its baseball, he wonders why anything other that a pop up or grounder is "too hard to catch." There is no lateral movement of the glove or body, and no natural use of the hands or wrists to "catch."

I puzzled on this phenomenon that evening, and as we started throwing football the next day, I puzzled some more. First I tried throwing the ball left or right of him. He would then do a ballet like spinning-scoop move. He kept the arms in, and his feet stayed planted in the same place. I tried throwing low, and he did a bailing motion like his boat was sinking. I threw high and he scooped so hard I thought he might do a back flip. Well.....at least the effort was there. I tried showing and talking about using the hands, moving to the ball, keeping the ball in front of your body...even if that means moving your feet. All to no avail.

Then as I gripped the nerf football for the next pass I had an idea. A wonderful idea! A wonderful, terrible idea. The next pass was thrown a little harder, then harder still. Balls bounced off him and caromed into the neighbors yard. He laughed and kept scooping. He giggled and kept bailing. Then, I as my resolve set in, the line between teacher and wacko blurred. "He won't get his hands up....He won't catch naturally....I must break this scoop-shit. He'll get his hands up by God!"

Then I zipped one right at his pretty blue eyes....hard. I saw them widen in shock and then he hit the deck and ball slammed into the wall behind him. He popped up, indignant, "Dad, you threw that at my face!"

"The ball slipped...if you'd catch with your hands you'd be fine!"

After the 5th high heater, my son told me he was ready to play by himself. I protested but to no avail. I left the yard, puzzled, frustrated and only slightly sheepish. I didn't think I had erred until much later. At the time, I was more upset that he never did put his hands up. That's how it happens people. That's how you go from progressive parent to a dad that deliberately threw at his own kid. And a Dad that at the time thought he was doing him a favor. Whether you vocalize it or, think it to yourself, the familiar lines bubble to the surface, passed by generation to generation, "It's for your own good Son! This hurts me more that it'll hurt you!"

I always wonder what stories my son will tell about me to his friends and kids. This one should probably make the list. I can hear it now, " You kids have it Sooo easy....my old man used to throw at my face trying to get me to catch the ball the way he thought I should catch it.....and I WAS ONLY FOUR!!!!"