DADS IN DENIAL: NBA.COM’S “DREADED P.G.A.”

What a trip it was when I started looking around the internet for youth basketball information when Mike started to show some promise as a player. He spent an entire spring playing for two hours per day in the driveway until he pretty much willed himself, with repetition, into becoming a good ball handler. I was having a blast and patting myself on the back for being the wonderful, well-adjusted father of a standout youth athlete.

There were more leagues than I ever knew about. Mike’s AAU coach told me about www.basketballdirector.com and I could not believe how many tournaments there were. In addition, there were day camps, shooting camps run by the famed Herb Magee, overnight camps at Villanova, Knights of Columbus Free Throw Shooting Contests and skills challenges.

We were doing everything we could find just for the action. The most fun were the games, because, of course, they kept score. And, after the games, we always had to talk about what had happened, whether I was coaching or not. Sometimes, it wasn’t easy and Mike wasn’t really interested, especially if he didn’t play well. But I always believed that my approach was perfectly appropriate – never overbearing, accentuating the positive, forgetting the turnovers and reinforcing the learning-by-experience process.

Still, we always talked about it right after the game; what else were we going to do on the ride home?

Then one day I went to NBA.com and started looking around for whatever programs they had for kids. I was certain that there had to be something since I had observed the league marketing machine as a fan of the sport over the years. I figured I’d see if there were any competitions that we could enter regionally so Mike could experience doing something associated directly with the NBA.

It was very cool to find a microsite called Jr. NBA www.nba.com/jrnba/ where there was all kinds of great stuff. The NBA had put real resources into the youth brand development component of its long-term marketing plan and the elaborate nature of the website was evidence of that. A letter to parents from Bill Walton. Pre-game meal suggestions for young players from Ray Allen. Just cool, fun, instructive content.

Then, I came upon a section with suggestions for young players called Relating to Your Parents. Another click and I saw the subhead: Dealing with the Dreaded P.G.A. The thought of golf flashed into my head and was quickly dismissed as I asked myself, “What the heck is P.G.A.” Reading on, I was informed that P.G.A. stands for Post Game Analysis. Getting defensive, I thought to myself, “What do they mean, ‘Dreaded.’”

“If you become the victim of a P.G.A. from your Mom or Dad..." was part of the copy that followed. What? Now I was really getting defensive. Dreaded? Victim? How dare they?

Then, again, there are all those news reports of over-the-top dads and I’ve witnessed a few unfortunately intense parking lot lectures myself. I guess it’s a legitimate point. There are certainly dads who get carried away.


“But that’s not the way it is with Mike and me,” I internalized. “Our conversations are constructive,” I continued, convincing myself beyond the slightest doubt. “Mike likes our post-game exchanges. And he appreciates their value.”

My wife, Kathi, will validate this for me.

“Steve, dreaded is the perfect word to describe it,” she lectured with a knowing half smile that put me on notice. “The kid doesn’t want it to happen and the father is desperate to share his insights. And everyone knows that the kid is not going to absorb much of it anyway.”

Dreaded? Victim? Now, desperate? But it’s different with Mike and me, right?

“Please,” she responded with a patronizing shake of the head.

Mike?

“Sorry, Dad. I just don’t look forward to it.” Mike offered candidly, not quite breaking my heart. “I just think it’s annoying. Dreaded is a good description.”

Okay, I’ll give you dreaded then, but victim? Come on now.

“Steve, a victim is somebody who is forced to do something they don’t want to do that could be painful. Something over which they have no control,” Kathi stated unflinchingly. “Isn’t that exactly what it is?”

C’mon, Mike. Help me out here. Victim is a little much, right?


“No, Dad. Sorry, again.” Mike said sympathetically. “You would, like, interrogate me about why I didn’t do something during the game. Victim is accurate.”

Ahhhh. Those two. They’re always ganging up on me for fun. And they're so cute when they exaggerate.

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The Ring Dance Story

My daughter Meaghan is totally put off by the fact that this blog centers around her brother Mike and the youth sports pursuits that he and I engage in together. Of course, this 20 year-old still holds a grudge from the day ten years ago when I used his birthday numbers as a password for one of my internet accounts instead of hers.

She’s also a 3.89 at the University of Richmond, something of a high achiever across the board, and one of her most endearing traits is that though she might sometimes be wrong, she is never in doubt. Once when she was in a particularly princessy frame of mind as a senior in high school who was somehow in charge of the world, I addressed her. My objective was to hand her a bit of humility with a strategically constructed question.

“Tell me, Meaghan,” I asked in a mock serious tone for effect. “What is it like to know everything about everything?”

With just a very brief pause enabling her to revel in her recognition of my attempt at putting her in her place, she responded, “Feels pretty good, actually.”

Of course, she forgot to mention that just a few months earlier she had failed her first driver’s test (rolled right through a stop sign). Similarly, she neglected to recall this observation that she made about Greek life at the University of Richmond: “I’m not sure I like this. If 45 per cent of the boys are in fraternities and 45 per cent of the girls are in sororities, that means 90 per cent of the students are Greek.” She recognized the gaffe immediately but that was too late and we will forever have that arrow in our quiver.

So this young lady is the star of the weekend as Richmond’s junior year Ring Dance takes center stage this past February. It is a wonderful event born of a longstanding tradition of women’s pride at one of America’s great educational institutions in one of our country’s great southern cities.

The men wear tuxedoes, the girls wear gowns for a blockbuster Saturday night party at the famed Jefferson Hotel. The highlight of the evening is the father escorting the daughter down this magnificent staircase with the young lady receiving her class ring from the Dean of the school on the bottom step.

You can imagine the amount of cost and effort during the preceding months as the three women in my household went about finding that gown. It was “Father of the Bride,” cubed. Since I was paying, I didn’t want to have to do anything but show up. Who was I kidding? I had to get measured for a tux. Then I had to go pick up the tuxes (Mike had to wear one, too). As usual, I tried to maintain my sanity by just going with the flow and we rolled into the weekend in pretty good shape. Drove down to Richmond on Friday and with all our formal wear dominating the back seat of the car I was glad that my wife, Kathi, had insisted the gown go back to Richmond when Meaghan returned to school in January.

Because we were four people (mother, grandmother, Mike and me), we had a suite at the hotel while Meaghan was staying with other girls in a room on another floor. The plan was for Meaghan to get dressed in our suite, where the mom and grandmom could primp and pamper her in the manner to which she has become accustomed.

Saturday morning comes and Mike and I are pretty juiced. The deal is that the girls are going to be gone for hours beginning at noon and we could do whatever we wanted. Just had to be back by 4 p.m. A quick check of the neighborhood turned up a YMCA right across the street. When we asked at the front desk we got more good news. The hotel had an arrangement with the Y and we could come and go as we pleased all day. Even we couldn’t play hoops for more than four hours at a time.

Great basketball with some of the Richmond hoops cognoscenti who congregate at the gym on a Saturday morning. We learned some new drills and did our thing for hours, went to lunch and were obediently back at the hotel by 4 p.m.

At that exact time, a call comes in from the Princess, who was undeniably in charge this particular day. And she was acting like it.

“Dad,” she stated dictatorially. “The girls are behind schedule. You and Michael have to both be in and out of the bathroom by 4:30 p.m. Got it?”

She had no real interest in any response, but I dutifully acknowledged the order and hung up the phone. I then told Mike that we’d have to hurry and that I would go first, thinking that I’d then be available to take additional orders upon their return.

So, in a rush, I walk into the bathroom and take off all my clothes. Somewhat uncomfortable in these unfamiliar surroundings and naked to boot, I hurriedly reached in and turned on the shower. I then wheeled around toward the sink to locate my toiletries before continuing the clockwise rotation toward the shower.

At that moment, my eyes fell upon the sight of Meaghan’s gown hanging on the shower curtain rack, far wider than the tub itself, undoubtedly being hit by the stream of water from the showerhead.

I let out a noise that Michael describes as a dinosaur in labor, some sort of heaving utterance that was somehow both loud and breathless. I lunged to turn off the water and paused to ask myself if what seemed to have happened had actually happened. Was it possible that on this weekend that we had been talking about for the past three years, on a day when I was willing to just do what I was told so that Meaghan’s experience could be as perfect as possible....was it possible that I had ruined her pristine, white, more-expensive-than-I-ever-want-to-know Ring Dance gown?

Anxiety under control, I gingerly peeled back the adjacent shower curtain and reluctantly surveyed the damage. About one-third of the gown was hit and it appeared to be a rear corner. The water seemed to be beading up a little bit and I began to think that I might not die during the next half hour.

I carefully removed the dress from the bathroom while asking myself what, exactly, was it doing there in the first place. I quickly dismissed the thought that anyone of the female gender would assume even the slightest amount of blame. They surely would have some justification – however inane -- for hanging a ridiculously expensive gown in a bathroom, on the shower curtain rack, well within reach of the water stream, when we had a huge suite with all kinds of unused closet space.

I dabbed it with a towel, said a prayer and plotted the explanation:

• Because they were late, I had to hurry. It was their fault.
• I was uncomfortable in an unfamiliar environment. It could have happened to anyone.
• Everything in the bathroom was white and blended together. Yeah!
• AND WHAT WAS THE GOWN DOING IN THE BATHROOM IN THE FIRST PLACE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The moment of truth came about 25 minutes later, when Kathi and her mother returned to the room.

Upon seeing the look on my face, Kathi said, indelicately, “What did you do?” Instead of defending myself, I took the high road, relayed the facts and said, “It may not be that bad.”

It wasn’t and we figured that with some strategic logistical maneuvering, Meaghan wouldn’t have to know. Mike managed to keep his mouth shut during the dress up phase and the staircase scene, along with the entire evening, was saved. About six hours and a few underage glasses of wine later, I told a giddy Meaghan the story in the company of several classmates. Her jaw dropped only to her bellybutton instead of the floor, primarily because the day was mostly done.

For the record, here’s what they said about why they hung the dress up on the shower curtain rod:

After three weeks hanging in the dorm, Kathi’s mom thought it would probably be crushed so she went out and bought a steamer. To have access to water in a place where it could hang freely, they decided to place it on the shower curtain rod.

Oh. Okay. I guess.

When I tell the story now, the most amazing thing is the reaction of women when I approach and tell the gown-meets-water part. Some grab my arm, others gasp as if witnessing a murder and others fall into my arms with a hug of empathy when it becomes clear that disaster was avoided.

The men laugh knowingly. Mike just shakes his head.

And we still do those Richmond basketball drills (suicides while dribbling with a between-the-legs bounce on each shift of direction).

And I just count my blessings, remembering that, sometimes, whatever can go wrong, doesn’t.


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MOMS IN CHARGE!

One of the most consistently hysterical things about youth recreation sports is the way that the moms are in charge of just about everything. I’m not talking about just the snack bar and the volunteer fundraisers and the “Team Mom” communications.

I’m talking about the very essence of youth sports recreation – whether or not the kids are even there.

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“How ya doing,” the photographer who took pictures at the basketball tournament Easter weekend said to me this week.

“I’m aggravated right now,” I offered candidly. “My wife won’t let my son go to his basketball game tonight because he’s overloaded with homework. I made a commitment to the coach and now he may be short of players, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Oh, Lordy!” He exclaimed. “I’ve been there. Just do what they say. They’re in charge. You don’t know nothin’. Biggest thing is, if you do what they say, you won’t have to hear about it later.”

The previous week, I was asking another Dad if his son could play in an AAU basketball game the next weekend. This is a man’s man, a guy who coaches three sports with an appropriate authoritarian approach, who, you would guess, wears the pants in his family.

My question about his son’s availability drew a blank, uncomfortable, vulnerable stare. My first impression was that some outside force had rendered him speechless for some reason. Then, he blurted. “Oh, I don’t know anything about that. I have no idea. You’ll have to talk to my wife.”

His tone made it clear that he wanted me to take that last sentence literally. This guy, who may be a captain of industry at the office, was not going to be making any executive decisions here. He did not want to be in the middle of this one. He was clearly out of political capital with the real boss. He knew that I knew his wife and that was enough of an opening to get him out of this deal. He didn’t say “she’s in charge,” but he didn’t have to. He knew and I knew, because most dads are in the same boat, including me.

So this past fall, Mike wanted to play three sports. Football for his new middle school, fall baseball in the town league and rec league basketball for a team that I was coaching. With school underway and Mike engaging the challenging 7th grade curriculum, we knew it would be a tight squeeze schedule-wise, but the opening was there:

• Football practice and games were all after school on weekdays
• Basketball had no practices and games only on late Sunday afternoons or evenings
• Baseball was during daylight on the weekends

So we got started and the inevitable happened. Homework and tests were incessant and increasing and there were elaborate projects that required kids to work together outside of the classroom. The concept of learning a foreign language -- Spanish -- was something Mike did not take well to.

Something had to give and my wife, Kathi, was adamant. Our perfect attendance record at Mike’s games and practices was in serious jeopardy.

Wacky Youth Sports Dad that I am, I started doing whatever I could to make it work. Studying with Mike in the early mornings, going to the game sites 15 minutes before the start time instead of 45, taking over Mike’s responsibilities around the house – that was my new MO. I actually believed that I had stabilized the situation.

One week or so later, I get an email from Kathi around 4 p.m., after Mike arrived home from school and the daily ritual of reviewing homework and upcoming tests was complete.

Steve:

Mike will not be able to go to football practice tomorrow and the Sunday basketball game is out. We’ll see if he can play baseball on Saturday. He has a project due on Monday and midterms are next week.

Of course, my answer to all of this is that proper time management would make everything doable, but that would mean no chatting or texting, no video games, no downtime in his room and no cuddle time with Mom. Knowing only too well that that wasn’t going to happen, my warped mind turned to another solution.

So I replied to Kathi’s email with deadpan matter-of-factness.

Kath:

This academic stuff is really starting to get in the way of Mike’s sports schedule. Do you think we could drop a couple of classes?

Steve

About 90 seconds later, my cell phone rang and there was Kathi. And she was not laughing.

“How old are you? You’re supposed to support me in all of this. And it’s not funny.”

Of course, I was kidding. But it is a bit scary that the thought even entered my head.

I’ve been trying -- unsuccessfully --to force it out ever since. ###


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Did That Coach Just Call My Son An "Easy Out?"

This is one of those true stories that can only be produced by the raw emotions of youth sports and the parents who come to watch – and subconsciously monitor – the games.

It is five years ago now, but all the participants remember it like yesterday.

It played out like live theater with conflict and resolution, protagonists and victims and finally an apology, accepted without a blink, half a decade later.

It was a Saturday morning during the spring youth baseball season at a cool little field here in suburban Philly. Parents were leisurely gathered in their lawn chairs surrounding the diamond, grouped predictably but separately behind and around the dugouts of their sons’ teams.

It was late in a hotly-contested game among eight year-old boys who were now old enough to turn infield grounders into forceouts and to genuinely care about winning or losing the game, advancing in the standings and getting to the playoffs.

First and second, two down and my son, Mike, is next up at this pivotal point in the game. I’m sitting in one of those lawn chairs next to my wife, Kathi, who is a loving, charitable but emotional soul whose motherly instinct to protect her young is, let’s say, acute.

Spectating along the first base line, we are a bit more tense than usual as Mike steps into the batter’s box. Then, Kathi hears a coach’s voice from across the field, “Okay, easy out.” Her interpretation of what she heard was the coach denigrating her son, who was smaller than most and still finding his stroke.

“Did you hear that?” she said to me sternly, immediately. I hadn’t, but she was fired up. “Mike heard it too. I’m going to give that coach a piece of my mind.“

Somewhat stunned, I watched her march behind the backstop and approach the other team’s bench, stop and address the coach, who was sitting on the upside-down bucket, facing the field and completely unaware of one mother’s impending wrath. I watched his head turn toward Kathi and but couldn’t hear the exchange. It was brief, attention-getting – and one-sided. Kathi doesn't remember what she said, but knowing her, I'm pretty sure "How dare you" was in there somewhere.

Kathi did an about face, walked purposefully back and resumed her seat. Seconds later the allegedly insensitive coach approached our group of parents and declared his innocence, stating that he was exhorting his team with the well-known phrase “easiest out,” which directs them to throw any infield grounder to the nearest base, since only the last out of the inning was needed.

“I would never have said ‘easy out.’ I’m not that kind of person,” he declared, pleadingly, to an uncomfortable group of fellow Little League parents from the opposing team who had no idea who he was or whether or not he had been wrongly accused. He made his point and retreated and the incident was mostly forgotten.

Now, of course, no one remembers what happened with Mike’s at bat, which team won the game or whether either made that season’s playoffs. But we remember that it was a Saturday morning, exactly where we were sitting at that field and the various images, including that of an accused man trying to explain an unfortunate misunderstanding to a mostly detached audience.

That image struck me again this past fall and I began to realize that that coach may well have been the father of a kid who had actually become Mike’s best friend. Kathi and I had gotten to know he and his wife well through youth sports interaction and a series of sleepovers with the boys.

Great guy, who, there can be no doubt, would never have called any kid an “easy out.”

First time I encountered him after coming to the realization that he had actually been wronged, I approached and said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” he offered and as I proceeded to describe the scene, he stopped dead in his tracks, looked me right in the eye and said, largely unamused “Yeah, that was me.”

Kathi knew what was happening and had kept her distance before seeing his reaction. She then came running over to give him an apologetic hug.

Turns out, he wasn’t even supposed to be coaching that day. He had gone to the game as an innocent dad watching his son play baseball, just trying to get through the day, when he was recruited to handle the head coaching duties. Less than an hour later he was under fire, the object of an intense verbal attack from the horrified mother of a poor, little eight year-old boy.

“I remember exactly what I was wearing,” he told me. “I was sitting on that bucket. I couldn’t believe what Kathi was saying. When I saw (the head coach who didn’t make the game) the next week, I said ‘Thanks for nothing.’”

As we go to Mike’s games now, this is one of our favorite youth sports competition spectator stories, one that brings even greater laughs now that all the parties are friends.

And it feels good to know for certain that another youth sports dad-coach did only the right thing.

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