Over a glass of wine Saturday evening, a volleyball mom told me she doesn't know what she'll do when the season ends this month. "The screaming is so cathartic!" she said. Our high school daughter doesn’t play volleyball, but we were invited to dine with team parents because of friendships forged on the bleachers during basketball season.
I come from a family of sports fans. Growing up, I didn’t count myself among them. The noise of the TV during football games irritated me, and I sequestered myself in my room to color, play or read books. Even as a teenager, I preferred to study or talk on the phone while the family roared in the den over each touchdown, each interception.
I happily married Steve, who had little interest in football.
Only in the past ten years have I become a rabid sports fan, screaming like a wild woman at my daughters’ soccer and basketball games. I started out slowly--quietly observing my big, non-competitive firstborn move from dance into soccer. But, within a year, I was overshooting all parental boundaries, calling out critical instructions to Colette from the sidelines.
The season of my distasteful yelling culminated in an embarrassing Sunday afternoon when I walked purposefully down the sideline toward the goal my daughter was protecting and screamed for the entire soccer complex to hear, “IF YOU DON’T WANT TO PLAY GOALIE, THEN TELL THE COACH AND GET OUT OF THERE!”
Eventually, Colette taught me that the only thing she wanted to hear out of my mouth while she was playing a game was “YAY!” or “Go team!”
Both of my daughters have impressed upon me that since I can’t dribble well and I can’t do a decent lay-up, I have no business calling out advice to them. I’m still loud, but I keep what I yell entirely positive. If I really need to curse their performance, I do it quietly, to whoever’s standing next to me.
