Here’s the story of a man whose political change was sparked by a kids’ basketball game, of all things.
Roland Toy ran up against a group of liberal parents who wanted to protect their fourth-graders from the pain and struggle of a championship game—the thrill (and bragging rights) of victory, as well as the agony of defeat:
Surely we could all agree that the real reason for the competition was to teach the boys cooperation and sportsmanship. Playing the game would mean one of the teams would lose, which would lead the winning team to “bragging rights in the schoolyard.” And that would not be healthy. It would undermine the real lessons to be learned about self-esteem and mutual respect.
This was a turning point for the author of the piece, who realized that the divisions were ultimately political, and that he—a lifelong Democrat—was on the conservative side of this one.
I had a somewhat related although very different experience when my son was young and playing Little League. The community in which I lived back then was unlike Toy’s. Oh, lip service was paid to the Little League idea of fostering self-esteem: coaches were required to let every player into the game for at least two innings and one at-bat, however lousy his skills. In practical terms, however, that meant that a great many players sat on the bench most of the time, in the hot sun or the frigid cold (game weather always seemed to alternate between these two extremes), during the many long hours that constituted the seemingly-interminable Little League games.
In my town (unlike Toy’s), kids’ sports were hugely competitive and the PC contingent was small or nonexistent. It was the sort of place where parents sometimes ended up arguing in the stands about a bad call, or yelling at their kids—or even on occasion slugging it out with each other or the ump, although fortunately I never actually witnessed the latter.
My son was a decent enough player—fair to middling, neither a star nor a goat. Most coaches allowed him to play somewhat more than the two requisite innings. But he was not one of those players who always got to play entire games, although on a good day it could happen.
Things went along just fine until one year he came across a coach I’ll call Mr. Martin (the coaches in our town were always “Mister,” never addressed by first names). Mr. Martin was a volunteer, like all the coaches, and like the rest he had his strong habits and opinions and was not to be crossed.
His son was on the team. His son’s friends were well-represented there, too, and Mr. Martin favored them mightily. No matter what their skills—and some of them were very poor players indeed—Mr. Martin let his son and his son’s friends play for the entire game, every game.
Those who were not of the inner circle—and my son was not—got short shrift from Mr. Martin. He only allowed them to play the minimal two innings, game after game after game (and believe me, there are a lot of games in Little League), no matter how well they might be performing during those two innings.
It was hard on my son. But baseball rules were baseball rules, and we knew from experience that a coach’s decisions were law with no appeal, as long as he followed the Little League rules (our son recoiled in horror at even the idea of our talking to the coach about it, anyway). Sometimes our son said he wanted to quit, and my husband and I were placed in the position of counseling him.
Although our strongest instincts were to protect him (our baby! out in the cold cruel world!) we decided it was far better that he stay in the league and finish the year if he could possibly stand it. We gave him pep talks about Life and Hard Knocks and Learning From Adversity and all those cliches that actually have meaning, and then we gritted our teeth and sat in the stands and watched all the games. Each time he was pulled out after two innings, he’d grit his teeth and look away from where he knew we were sitting, and we’d try to keep our heartrates down below the rapid pace to which they’d suddenly shot up in anger and frustration.
I remember the worst game of all. My son’s team was behind, and even the most solid members didn’t seem to be able to do much of anything with their at-bats. My son, however, had managed to get a very solid hit—an earned double—in his very first at-bat, and then to successfully steal third in a gutsy move, although he remained stranded there at the end of the inning. He had some nice fielding moments, too, and I thought that this time the coach would have to leave him in. After all, he was the only thing going on offensively and defensively for the team that day.
It seemed I was correct, because when it came near the time for his second at-bat (and third inning!), he strode to the on-deck circle and took a few practice swings. Then, when the player ahead of him struck out, he approached the plate.
Mr. Martin, who’d been engaged till then in studying the clipboard on his lap, suddenly looked up and saw my son. The coach quickly stood and waved at him with a frantic come–over-here hand motion, as he yelled my son’s name and yelled “You, out!”
Another kid trotted in to replace him. I could feel my son’s fury as he walked, silent and contained, to the dugout (not really a dugout, of course, but a bench behind a protective wire fence). As for me, I simply could not sit still; I jumped up, climbed down from the stands, and began to pace in back of them, nearly hyperventilating in my own rage and frustration. I found that I could not look, and for the very first (and only) time, I left the game and drove home without staying till the bitter end.
My son, on the other hand, sat there for the whole thing; he had to. I’m not sure what sustained him—perhaps the knowledge that if he left he’d be known as a quitter. When the three of us assembled at home (my brave husband had managed to stay, as well), we all agreed that our son would stick out the season. Which he did.
I bowed to no one in my desire to protect my child. But he was growing up, and I knew I had to try to prepare him for the world as it is, with all of its disappointments, not the world as I might wish it to be. Unfair Little League coaches were a piece of cake compared to some of the things that could happen out there, and there was no way to protect him. All I could do was love him, support him, and try to make him strong—stronger and better than I was. Isn’t that what every parent wants?
