I was on a panel talking about Soccer Dad at the Printers Row Lit Fest this last weekend, in Chicago. Someone asked a question about how parents can emotionally differentiate their love for their kid’s sport and the kid’s love for the sport. I suggested that a parent might test that by not going to one of their kid’s games, and seeing how that feels—for both the parent, and the kid.
Parents are always bragging about never missing their kids’ games. They brag about this so much that by the end of their sporting careers, you hear the kids bragging about it, too. “My dad never missed a game!”
To which I wonder, “Why the hell not?”
And think, “Didn’t your parents have a life of their own?”
And ask, “Why can’t they leave their kid alone every once in awhile?”
Did it ever occur to these parents that it might be nice for the kid, now and then, to come home from a game, or even (gasp!) a whole tournament, with tales to tell? How it went down, how they played, how they felt, what the weather was like, what the stupid parents said, what the stupid coaches said, and what they themselves said in return? Their own story of their own game: Don’t you think that might engender a more of a sense of ownership of their own adventure?
Did it ever occur to these parents that it might be nice for a kid to play an occasional game without feeling the heat of parental eyes following them like hot unblinking lasers all over the field (and up and down the sideline) from the opening whistle to the last?
A former soccer dad I know has a podcast. He interviewed his ex-soccer player daughter after her career, and apologized to her for having had to miss a handful of her games over the ears. She told him she often played better when he and her mother weren’t there. More free. Less watched. He was shocked to hear it.
I saw most of my daughter’s games, from peewee to Division I. The vast majority, I’m sure. But I also missed plenty, because of work obligations, social obligations and also, I’m sure, a few golf trips and motorcycle rambles. In general, my wife and I didn’t believe in suspending our own lives for the 18 years our child lived with us. We didn’t want our kid being raised by two weird parenting bots. No, we believed in living our lives, and showing our daughter what adult life actually looked like. We thought that was part of being good parents, too.
So yeah, we missed a few of her games and tournaments. And those were probably the moments when she understood (or remembered) that her soccer was her soccer (and her life was her life)—not ours.
That seems like a pretty important thing for any kid to know. (And any parent, to remember.)
