Do you know that recent blog where I shared my anguish as a losing little league coach? Remember how I vowed I would never volunteer to coach again? So try to answer this: only three weeks after those wounds had healed, why on earth would I volunteer to coach again?
A. I still sought the party, the thanks, and the joy I never got from my other coaching seasons.
B. This was basketball which, unlike soccer, I knew and could actually teach.
C. I’m a petty competitor and needed to put a win on my abysmal coaching record.
D. No one else would do it.
E. I am a martyr and, like the sick people who cut themselves to feel, I suffer the screams of unruly children to remind myself that I am a hero.
F. Despite my blog and all of my whining, deep down I’m a loving father who actually enjoys helping children learn valuable life-lessons.
G. All of the above
If you answered “G. All of the above” you are not only wrong but you are an A- hole and no longer my friend. The correct answer is “D”, jerk! Just like the last time I coached, and the time before that, and every volunteer job ever, I was the last one holding the “not it” coaching grenade when it exploded.
Three days before the first practice my 8 year-old’s coach ruptured his Achilles tendon.The bullying league gave us that familiar ultimatum: someone step-up or your kids will have no team. All of us parents waited for someone to blink in the volunteer show-down. No one expected me to do it again. Perhaps they read my blog and took pity. Or more likely, they didn’t want me to coach their kids with my poor record and my very public dislike of children. I couldn’t blame them.
I agreed to take a car full of the neighborhood kids to the first practice and see if a solution had been found. I hoped that the league might have miraculously found some other poor sap to coach. Just like becoming a father, I guess I should have known what might happen when I went in there unprotected. Whoa! As I feared, the league rep confirmed that by showing up, I had the job and there was no help coming. As it is with parenting, the job plops on to your lap and you have the choice to either jump in and guide them, or run away and hope that someone else takes care of them. That first practice I walked into a trap. Eight boys with basketballs waited with only myself there to fall on the grenade. Boom.
That first practice confirmed three things: