An angry parent whom I do not know
by Kent Sterling
Watching sports parents at every level is the same. It doesn’t matter whether the kid is in college, the NBA, high school, or a fifth grader. They are all sure the coach just doesn’t see their kid as the person and player he is. The officials are boobs and single their kid. And they try their best to appear as though they care about all the kids equally. Not all of them make the effort to care about other kids, or be perceived as though they do. Some are just unrepentant assholes, and they aren’t afraid to tell you all about how their kid is the best player in the school, on the team, or in the world.
Over the past two years, I’ve seen them all. Almost exactly two years ago, I sat immediately in front of Armon Bassett’s Dad at the IU vs. Ohio State game in Assembly Hall. I had a feeling it was Bassett’s Dad because he was wearing a fancy sweatsuit and was an African-American. That meant it was either a player’s dad or former IU President Adam Herbert. I’ve seen Herbert, so I could eliminate him. I know Eric Gordon’s Dad a very little bit, so he was eliminated. Then, Bassett made a shot. Instead of cheering, this guy told everyone that Armon doesn’t do that enough and how the system at IU was holding him back. I took that to mean that the guy thought Armon was as good or better than Eric Gordon. Only a dad could think something that silly.
I made it a point to tell my friend Paulie Balst, with whom I sat, how good a shooter Armon is. Unfortunately, my habit of being confused by name pronunciations reared its ugly head. (I have met John Feinstein, have read most of the books he’s written, and heard him on the radio and TV dozens of times, but ask me whether his last name is pronounced “FINE-steen” or “FINE-stine” and I have precisely a 50% chance of getting it right.) I called Armon Bassett, “ARM-on”. Keep in mind that I was effusive in my praise. Bassett’s Dad snapped around and chastised my inability to pronounce his kid’s name as though it was preposterous that anyone in the state would not have his kid’s bio committed to memory. He then said it was a good thing arm-ON’s Mother didn’t hear me because “she would tear your head off”.
Conversely, I had a party last year, and Jennifer McRoberts came. The Pacers were playing, and she was riveted as she watched to see if Josh would get into the game. Her behavior was exactly how I would have expected a mom of a high school kid to act as she watched a road game she couldn’t attend. She was passionate and when Josh got into the game, her focus was complete. I always thought that NBA parents would enjoy basketball without all the stress because of the millions of dollars the kid was able to stuff into his bank account. Nope. They are just the same.
My nephew Tate played in a tournament last weekend, and my family and I caught one of the games. Tate is nine or ten, and is a really good player. His parents – my sister and brother-in-law – are sane and realistic people. They are very aware that winning and losing for kids is irrelevant. They know that Tate being a great kid is more important than his skill as a ballplayer. They also yell and scream at officials like it’s their job. In the interest of full-disclosure, my Dad was an absolute lunatic with umpires and referees when he was a fan. I sat next to him at the 1981 Seymour Regional game between New Albany and Floyd Central when Dad threw an unlit cigar at a ref because of a call he felt went against New Albany. Because Dad had a good arm, even a 51, he hit the official square in the back. So my sister acquired her ill-temper honestly. Of course, I did the same thing. Injustice toward my kin requires my loud attention.
My son plays college basketball at Loyola of Chicago. I sit among the parents, as I will tonight at the Ramblers play Valpo. The parents – one in particular – is vociferous in the extreme toward the officials. He gets angry to the point he will get out of his seat and walk toward the court screaming. I find it hilarious because I’ve done the same thing, but not quite with equal anger. This makes that dad crazier than I am, and I take great solace in that. I get to tell my wife, “I may be nuts, but look at that guy. Aren’t you lucky?”
If you are a sports parent, do yourself a favor and forgive yourself for all of your passionate outbursts toward coaches and officials. You aren’t alone, and you are likely no crazier than anyone else. If you are a coach, forgive all the parents for being passionate ambassadors for their children. Parents are easily the worst thing about coaching kids, but that comes with the territory. When my son was in the fourth thru seventh grade, he was fortunate enough to be coached by a really good guy and coach who was also the coach of a successful high school team. At the end of the first year, I asked him what he wants from parents. He told me, “A handshake and a thank you at the end of the season.”
At the end of every game, give your kid a hug and kiss. Make sure they are having fun. If they walk away from the game with a smile, drive home happy. Then, make sure and thank your coach and shake his hand at the end of the season.
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