It's a chilly Saturday. I could be home pulling weeds out of my garden or sweeping cobwebs from the corners of the living room or curled up on the couch with a good mystery. Instead I'm sitting on a cold metal bench in the stands of a baseball park. An icy wind creeps through my heavy winter jacket and starts my teeth chattering. I blow on my hands wishing I'd brought my woolen mittens.
"Mrs. Bodmer?" It's my son's coach, the one he admires so much. He even decided to give up soda pop because he wanted to be able to impress the coach with his healthy fitness level when the team began practicing. This is quite a sacrifice for a boy who thinks a "Super Big Gulp" is a regular portion size. "I thought you'd like to know that I'm going to start your son today in right field. He's worked hard this year and I think he deserves the opportunity to start."
Sports Can Reward the Discipline Kids Develop
"Thanks." I'm proud of my son who has given this man and this team everything he has. I know how bad he wants this. I'm glad his hard work is being rewarded.
Suddenly I'm nervous for him. I buy hot chocolate, holding it between my hands for warmth. I take a sip and burn the roof of my mouth.
The team members trot onto the field. They all look so much alike. I search for my son's number. It isn't there. Instead Eddie takes right field. I look again, unbelieving. Yes, it's Eddie, the most inexperienced player on the team. How can that be? I glance at the coach, but he's absorbed in the game. I want to run over and ask what's going on, but I know my son wouldn't like that. Over the last eight years I've learned the proper etiquette for moms; talking to the coach is definitely not acceptable.
My son is gripping the chain link fence that protects the bench from stray balls. I hear him yelling encouragement to his teammates. I try to read his non-verbals, but I know he, like most males, has learned to hide his feelings from the world.
My heart breaks because he has worked so hard and received so much disappointment. I don't understand what drives young boys to want to put themselves through this. Each year I secretly hope my two sons won't try out. Each year they eagerly beg me to let them play.
Parents' Relationships to Games, Other Adults Are Sometimes Uncomfortable
"Atta boy, Eddie," yells someone nearby. It's Eddie's father. He's smiling, proud that his son is starting.
I shake my head. I've seen this same man walk out of games when his son dropped a ball or made a bad throw. His disgust at his son's performance has been clear to all of us this year. It makes us uncomfortable. None of us want to sit next to him. But, for now, Eddie's father is proud of his son, who is starting, while my son is on the bench.
By the fourth inning my fingers are stiff from the cold, and my feet are numb, but I don't care. My son has been called into the game and is about to come up to bat. I glance at the dugout. He stands, sorts through the batting helmets, and chooses one. He picks up a bat and struts out to the batter's box.
I grip the metal seat that has carved permanent ridges in my body. My son takes a couple of practice swings, adjusts his batting glove and steps up to the plate. The pitcher looks like an adult. I wonder if anyone has checked his birth certificate. Strike one. "Nice swing!" I yell. The next pitch is a ball. "Good eye! Good eye!" Strike two. I pray. I cross my fingers and my toes.
The pitcher winds up for the throw. I hold my breath. Strike three. My son's head hangs and he slowly walks back to the dugout. I look away wishing with all my heart I could help. But I know there's nothing I can do, except watch.
Sometimes Adolescent Child Development Requires Parental Stamina
For eight years I've been sitting here. I've drunk gallons of terrible coffee, eaten tons of green hot dogs and bags and bags of salty popcorn. I've endured the cold and the heat, eaten dust, and sat in the rain.
Some people may wonder why. Why would a sane person go through this? It's not because I'm trying to live my life through my children. Let me assure you, my life is exciting enough. I chair a major conference, hold down two part time jobs, have a house that needs shoveling out and a family who expects dinner once in a while.
It's not because I want to fulfill my dream of excelling at sports through my kids. The only sport I ever played was basketball. The coach talked me into coming out for the team because I was tall. I was also terrible. Cheerleading and drill teams were more my style.
It's not because I love competition. Personally, I'd rather they didn't keep score so everyone could win. I let my children beat me at all sorts of games because I don't want them to feel bad.
I also don't do it because it's cheap entertainment. To sign up costs money and then, of course, every year they have to get new uniforms, which they wear once or twice and then stuff in a closet where they gather dust forever. One year, my son made the all star team. Guess what? He had to buy another jacket.
I also don't do this for the emotional highs. Oh yes, I've had some. I've seen one or the other of my two sons score the winning goal in soccer, hit home runs in baseball, and spark a come-from-behind win in basketball. I've seen them make some incredible leaping catches and some wonderful blocks in football. But mostly I've seen heartache.
I've waited with them for that phone call telling them they'd made the team. The phone call that never came. I've watched them sit on the bench game after game. I've sat in emergency rooms as broken bones were set and swollen ankles X-rayed. I've watched coaches yell at them and get ejected from games for their tantrums.
I've sat here year after year observing it all and wondering why. Sometimes, I actually think a root canal would be more fun.
Sports Develops More than Just Physical Fitness for Children
Finally, the game is over. I stretch my legs and try to stomp life back into my frozen feet. The coach meets with the team. They yell some rallying cry and then descend on their parents. I notice Eddie's dad wears a big grin and slaps his son on the back. My son wants money for a hamburger. While I wait for his return the coach approaches me. I can't bring myself to look at him.
"Mrs. Bodmer, I wanted you to know that's one fine young man you have there."
"Why?" I ask, waiting for him to explain to me why he broke my son's heart.
"When I told your son he could start, he thanked me and turned me down. He told me to let Eddie start, that it meant more to him."
I turn to watch my son stuffing his burger into his mouth. I realize then why I sit in the stands. Where else can I watch my son grow into a man?
Judy Bodmer has spent 18 years watching her two sons play baseball, soccer, basketball, and football in Kirkland, Washington. This article first appeared in Parents of Teenagers, May/June 1994.