It
was late in the afternoon when the receptionist announced my daughter was holding on line
three. I’d been anticipating this moment all day, but now that it was here, my
heart skipped a beat. But that is the end of the story.
Both my children have grown up in the Eanes School District. There are many opinions regarding the
“spoiled rich kids in Westlake,” but I think the reason these kids dominate all
of Central Texas in sports has little to do with being rich or spoiled. It’s
because from the age of 5, kids of both sexes are exposed to organized,
omnipresent, competitive sports programs. I doubt statistics are kept on the
percentage of eligible children who at one time or another enter these
programs, but I can assure you the number would be staggering.
The philosophical shadings of placing children into the boiling cauldron of
these programs are certainly open to debate. Is it a healthy environment where
kids learn teamwork and the values of physical fitness? Or, does it instill the
message that winning, if not everything, is at least damned important, that
competition and domination are a part of life? My own views reside somewhere in
the middle. I’ve raged against — both as a coach and a loudmouthed parent —
the seemingly uncontrollable adult urge to create “select” (read: elite) teams
at ridiculously young ages. My heart went out to kids who clearly didn’t want
their shins kicked or to be nailed in the nose with a baseball. As they got
older, I hated to see kids I’d known now being rejected as not good enough
while the teams they wanted to play on became ever more competitive.
I’d be a liar to say I didn’t have hopes for my kids to excel at athletics.
Part of it was me, living through them my frustrated sports fantasies.
Part of it was quietly enjoying (though I always pretended it was no big deal)
when other parents would compliment me on the achievements of my kids. Having
said this, I went out of my way to steer a moderate course. I encouraged — but
was careful not to cross — the little league parent line.
My son progressed through all the levels of the district’s sports programs. At
13, he abruptly quit. Though an excellent athlete, he simply stopped playing
sports. I was surprised but didn’t push the issue. I never got the feeling
being good at sports was really that big of a deal to my son.
His sister, four years younger, was a different story. Also an excellent
athlete, being good clearly meant more to her. Was it adult approval and praise
she thrived on? Did she just bask in being good? Whatever, it mattered to her.
This fall Janie went out for the school volleyball team, a sport she’d never
played. The try-out process was intense: three days, 60 girls trying out for 25
spots. I was shocked when, for the first time in her life, Janie was not
chosen.
An obvious but nevertheless harsh reality became apparent. Many kids in
Westlake had, long ago, made sports the central focus of their lives. I mean to
imply no negative judgment here at all: There are far worse things a young
teenager can be doing with his or her time. Many of her friends had been
playing competitive volleyball for years. She simply did not possess the
necessary technical skills to compete.
To my surprise, she didn’t seem too concerned by this rejection. I did,
however, discern a heightened interest in basketball, the next sport for which
she would try out. I knew the same situation would exist. Janie played many
years of sloppy, dad-coached, recreational basketball. The competition was
poor, skill-teaching almost nonexistent, her teams never very good. Most of her
contemporaries, playing in private organized leagues basically year-round,
would be far more advanced. As the fall progressed, she worked hard and her
improvement was apparent. I now had to really try to beat her in driveway
games. A rejection this time would hurt.
As the five-day tryout period finally began, I found myself increasingly
anxious. One night at Randall’s, I ran into one of her friends, also trying out
for the team. I was embarrassed by an unintended venting of my private fears on
this 13-year-old girl. The night before the team would be chosen, I decided I’d
give up Clinton’s victory, if I could. I figured the country will still be here
after Dole — this was much more personal.
Perhaps you’re thinking this is a bit extreme, maybe saying more about me than
her. This is not true. I’m worried about my daughter losing her center,
damaging fragile self-esteem. My greatest fear? A rudderless drift in the
dangerous world today’s teenagers must navigate. That night I actually said a
prayer.
So, now the little phone light is blinking relentlessly. I’m frozen. A hot
lump suddenly in my stomach. What’s waiting behind that blinking light? A
trying-to-be-brave-but-broken-hearted little girl? A sobbing, disconsolate
daughter? It even occurred to me she might only be calling to ask what’s for
dinner.
“Daaaad,” she said, hiding any emotion from her voice, “guess what?” Jesus,
Janie, I think. What?! What?! What?!?!!
“I made the team.” n
Write me: Coach36@aol.com
This article appears in November 15 • 1996 and November 15 • 1996 (Cover).