I wrote a great sentence this morning.
Actually, it began as something completely different a week ago, something mundane but enough to move the narrative. Then I edited the chapter a dozen times. Sentences got moved around. The "good enough" came under scrutiny. Then right around nine this morning, deep into my coffee, the words of that sentence started to look just OK. The sentence before it had to go because suddenly it was just dumb. And then I fiddled and tweaked and somehow made myself curious enough about a couple details that I researched a couple historical nuggets and dropped them nicely into a single twelve-word collective followed immediately by a period.
My heart soared.
I don't know what any of you do for a living, but I'm sure you have something like that in your work now and again — one of those simple pleasures causing great delight that rallies back for the next hour or so, like remembering from out of nowhere Kirk Gibson's 1988 home run against the A's in Game One of the World Series, in all its fist-pumping glory.
That sentence carried me through church. And brunch, a new addition to our Sunday since the boys are grown. But then it was time for grocery shopping at Pavilions. Calene headed off to the pharmacy, leaving me alone with the cart. This is an important point.
Somewhere between the Pico Pica hot sauce and the sugar-free ice cream, droning around as I waited for Calene to circle back to the Space Shuttle, I overheard one of those random grocery store conversations that make you stop in your tracks.
Right next to me, a couple moms were making faux nice, comparing their club sports experiences. One looked competitive and fit, as if she was the glamour mom. The other one was eager to keep up.
I was intrigued. They looked like high school moms. This is my world. What would they say next? I circled around the coffee pods, reminding myself that I must never leave this area for any possible reason — waiting right here for Calene was the most important thing I could do today.
These were not high school moms. I heard the words "fourth grade" and "nine-year-old," which is never a good thing for long-term athletic development. I made a horse race loop around the tortilla aisle and chicken thighs over and over to hear more. Don't judge me. Okay. Judge me. Because what I'm about to say might be perceived as unkind.
Still waiting for Calene, I listened to long uninformed naivete about the best local club teams in a number of sports (a hallmark of the club parent is going from one team to another by season — soccer, basketball, baseball, lacrosse — until their kid finds a specialty or is Darwin-ed out of a sport forever). Club sports are a money grab designed to play on parents' hopes and lofty dreams that their kid will earn an athletic college scholarship. Some are even sure their child will play pro. Because that's what many coaches promise.
I have coached AYSO, Little League, and then a couple decades of high school track and cross country (full disclosure: I also serve on the board of the USA Track & Field Foundation, overseeing youth runner development). I am also a parent who has paid thousands in dues to club soccer, lacrosse, baseball, basketball, and youth track teams. So I know this world.
And it's broken.
Let your kid have fun. Relax about the scholarship. The sport will find them. Norway has some of the most successful athletes across numerous sports in the world and they don't allow specialization until age fourteen. They just roll out the ball and let kids play. By the time I get most athletes into high school running as freshmen they are burned out. Sports are no longer fun. Children never just go to the cul-de-sac and play sports anymore — not catch, not interception, not even hopscotch. Everything has been subsumed into cultural fear, helicopter parenting, and that dangling promise of a scholarship that rarely comes to pass.
I know some amazing club coaches. The guy coaching the women's team at the high school where I coach distance is a boss. A truly amazing coach. But most, let's face it, can't deliver on the scholarship promises and social pampering that make parents write a big check to be on their team. Kids tell me about coaches who do nothing but yell. Denigrate them. Threaten them with being kicked off the team if they miss a practice for any reason whatsoever.
Now, I know some of you think your kid is the exception. He or she is so amazing that every D1 school in America follows their every head fake. When you are disabused of that fantasy, please come have your athlete run cross country. The stopwatch is not some "college showcase" money grab (there's that term again). The stopwatch never lies. You're fast or you're slow. Nothing subjective. No need to travel across the country for a showcase: Coaches will find you, thanks to this crazy thing called the Internet.
Back to Pavilions. Those women were still sweetly one-upping each other as Calene found me. There was asparagus to buy. Frozen peas. I tried to get back to feeling good about that morning's sentence, but something as stupid as thinking fourth grade sports actually matters never left my mind.
High school is the proving ground. Few sports offer scholarships before puberty. Let your children play a little football, a little soccer, maybe splash around in the pool with a water polo ball. Then, when they've developed some aerobic strength, functional musculature, and hand-eye coordination, let them experiment with the sport of their choice for real. Above all, encourage your child to have fun, knowing this involves hard work and sacrifice.
They're called "games" for a reason.