Game On
The small, rusty garbage can in the corner of the weathered, beaten one-car garage that hadn’t housed a car in decades mocked me even more than my older brothers, if you can possibly imagine that.
My brothers were 9 and 6 when I was born. They gorged on their adolescence, succeeding wildly in sports (Jim) and music (Tom) commandeering my parents’ attention and energy.
Each night at the dinner table they exercised their favorite pastime, speaking up to interrupt and drown me out every time I opened my mouth. They thought that was hilarious. My parents sorta did, too. At least not enough to stop it.
No wonder I have so many stories to tell.
When I reached the age of athletic exploration for myself, my parents appeared disinterested and the family cupboard was bare. The discarded remnants filled the can in the garage. It’s all yours, they said.
Worn to a slick finish, the basketball still held air, surviving much better than the deflated football. Grass-stained baseballs lie at the bottom, beneath the worn catcher’s mitt, mask and shin guards. A beat-up baseball bat could be used to stir the contents around, not to mention embed a sliver or two in your hand.
Want to play sports? Your gear is in the garage.
I got a pitch-back net for my 10th birthday, so I could play catch with myself.
I taught myself to punt a football straight up in the air, so I could catch it myself.
I shot the basketball through an imaginary basket where the hoop once hung.
Hard to believe I’m the fourth of five kids.
I never played on an organized sports team, although my absolute love of all sports was impossible not to notice, since I wrote my own sports magazine and blabbered on for hours about my beloved Green Bay Packers, Wisconsin Badgers, Milwaukee Bucks and Milwaukee Brewers.
I taught myself how to ride a bike, too.
I played alone.
And I loved it.
That’s what a writer does.
Table for one.
As a journalist covering sports most of my life, I’ve seen different approaches over the course of time. No doubt my parents would have tested my talent in youth soccer, at the very least, if I were young today — or anytime in the past 20 years. At least I think they would have. I would be impossible to ignore.
Instead, I see how so many kids run away from organized sports screaming.
Did you know that 75% of kids quit playing organized sports by the time they are 13 years old? And we wonder why obesity seems to be the common bond for all generations of Americans.
They quit around that age because that's when sports become a job rather than a joy, a passion.
Parents and kids alike have visions of college scholarships dancing in their heads.
That's when they get down to business. Time to get serious.
Time for the fun-lovers to leave.
Time to leave childlike wonder behind.
The money we dish out for this madness is crazy. I literally paid thousands of dollars to have two clueless club coaches destroy my daughter's love of volleyball. It was painful to watch. Those coaches never batted an eye making dramatic moves with winning their only goal.
My daughters, however, were always in sports just for the fun of it. They repeatedly passed requests to join the gymnastics club team, preferring instead to just take lessons and have fun.
They played volleyball to have interaction with the girls who weren’t in their honors classes, and give them a break from their endless work as students. They packed away the volleyball gear after high school and focused on studies en route to becoming a mechanical engineer and doctor. Now they run and hike and love being active, again, just for the fun of it.
There is a lot one can do with a life. But if life isn't fun, then what's the point?
I see a collection of generations scratching their heads, wondering what the hell is wrong with kids today. They'd rather be skateboarding or riding their bikes or playing video games than spending a few hours each day at practice with coaches orchestrating their every move.
What we need is a new perspective on coaching and teaching.
Have you ever watched those kids who spend all day with their skateboards and bikes and, yes, video games? They push their limits beyond what most crazy coaches would dare demand.
They work on a trick for hours, days, weeks, months and yes, sometimes years — undaunted and seemingly never devastated by a setback, or two, or 10.
They crash.
They hurt.
They dust themselves off and do it again.
On their own.
Until they get it.
They don't need a coach telling them what to do or how to do it.
They don't need someone reminded them of mistakes and how to correct them.
They learn the way humans have learned forever: By experimenting.
That’s the way I learned. And that's where the fun lives.
If I were a youth coach of, let's say for example, soccer, I would take my team to a local high school or college game to see how it is done.
To see the excitement and thrill of playing.
To hear the crowd.
Then I'd go to the field and set up the goal.
Throw each kid a soccer ball and say go out and play until you hear my whistle — one I’ll blow when the streetlights come on.
I'd whistle near the end of practice, and just leave enough time for them to show each other what they learned.
And if they didn't quite get it right, well, that's life.
I wouldn't jump in and show them how it's done.
I'd leave it up to them.
They will find the fun.
They will learn to live.
And live to learn.
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