Photo Credit Ben Hershey
My brother was (and is) a gifted athlete, and he was expected to be not just good but great or even phenomenal in every inning, quarter, and game. We’ve never talked about this similar experience, but I have to assume the weight of this was as crushing for him as it was for me.
Dad made himself and my family miserable about this sports thing. I know he loved us, that was never in doubt, but perfection was always just out of reach, and I carry the fear of not being good enough to this day. Worse than that, I fear lurking inside me is the same instinct for impossible expectations for my kids waiting to rear its ugly head.
So that leaves me where we started: I’m steaming in the Chicago heat, perched on scalding tin bleachers, straining with all my heart to be positive, to be present, to enjoy the opportunity to see my kids play, to cheer at the highs and to – help me – bite my tongue at the lows. During some seasons, during some sports (let’s be honest), there have been some serious lows. Sometimes I have to look away.
But sometimes, I find moments of happiness even when the score indicates that there is no joy in Mudville. I watched a more skilled player step aside and help my son change his grip on the bat and widen his stance. Next, at bat, my son hit a triple. I watched my son console a teammate with a pat on the back after a strikeout. I heard the team repeat silly chants and rally back to win late in the game.
My husband is an excellent example of the best sports parent behavior. He encourages my boys to work hard, practice, and improve, to show up for their teams, rain or shine. He sees my stress and helps me to relax. His expectation for me is that I also make an effort, that I do my best, and that I try to do better.
I’m not perfect, but I know I’m loved, and my kids know they are, too, and that’s the best position we could be in.