ESPN.com - The terrifying world of child's play

ESPN.com: Page 2

Friday, May 24, 2002
Updated: May 28, 1:13 PM ET
The terrifying world of child's play

By Bob Halloran
Special to Page 2

Poor Dan the Man! Poor, innocent, unsuspecting, wide-eyed Dan the Man. Just 7 years old and his view of the world is about to begin its gradual decline toward a cynicism that heretofore he never knew existed.


	Organized youth sports are fine, but disorganized youth sports are even better.

My kid had his first baseball game a few weeks back. He is now a ball- and glove-carrying member of the world of organized youth sports -- America's home version of "Star Search" -- the place where the joy of participation is eventually replaced by talent evaluators known as parents, coaches and various other misguided adults.

Dan the Man will soon discover that organized sports aren't nearly as fun as the disorganized games kids play in their backyards, with their friends, without uniforms, without fees, and most importantly -- without adult intervention. In pick-up games, everyone plays. No one's excluded. Maybe it's just because every "body" is needed to fill the teams, but I honestly remember my group of friends being far more sensitive to the feelings of other children than the coaches we played for.

Sure, there's sadness for the kid who always gets chosen last, but at least he knows he'll play every inning, every down, or every second of 4-on-4 half-court. Meanwhile, I remember Little League coaches struggling to figure out how to get the fat kid in and of out of right field for the minimum required two innings without him costing us the game. If the coaches didn't have to play everyone, it's clear many of them wouldn't.

In pick-up games, there are do-overs arrived at democratically. It's understood that a ball that hits the house is still in play, and if it rolls down the drain, it's a ground-rule double. Third base is the lamp post and you slide at your own peril. And the only time limit is when Joey's mom calls him in for dinner and he has to bring the street hockey net back inside. "Game over." "See you tomorrow." "Can't ... I got a Little League game." "Oh, sorry to hear that." "Yeah, me, too."

Looking back, the best times I had playing sports were the stick-ball games in the street, the pick-up games at the park, the street hockey games at the train station, and just about any other game that went on without supervision. We played hard. We fought. We compromised. And like the constipated recluse, we worked things out on our own. No shirt, no special shoes, no problems.

But even with the jaded memories of my past, I'm glad Daniel is participating. He's 7 years old, and he deserves to have pure, innocent, "love of the game" kind of fun for as long as it'll last. But knowing that it won't last long, I've decided to offer Daniel a few words of wisdom to prepare him for this decadent path he has embarked upon -- a few, simple do's and don't's, if you will.

Be naive as long as possible. In fact, use your ignorance to your own advantage.

(I was playing catch with Daniel recently and the ball grazed off his forehead. He started to cry and said he was going in the house. I knew he wasn't really hurt, so I said: "That's right, Daniel. Any time you get a little boo-boo, or something doesn't go your way, the absolute best thing for you to do is quit. That's my advice to you." Daniel looked up at me with tears in his eyes and said: "OK" -- and then he started to walk into the house! He wasn't being a wise guy. He just didn't grasp the sarcasm.


	"Do you have any idea how important this game is?" "No, coach, not at all."

So, I think he should use that when a coach says something like: "Hey, Halloran, do you have any idea how important this game is?" Daniel should just say: "Not at all." That would make me proud.)

Don't cry when you strike out. When I was a kid, I looked at more backward K's than a dyslexic reading: Kick a Kazakhstani Kayak in Khaki's for a Karaoke Kodak moment.

If you get a coach like Bobby Knight who says he'll make a man out of you, tell him that's not the kind of man you want to be, and that you'd really rather be a kid for a while longer.

If you've got a coach whom you can't stand, and he can't stand you, and you're absolutely miserable, the only reason to keep playing is if you're trying to impress a girl.

Don't ever try to make some politically correct stand and sign up for field hockey. I'm not paying for the skirt.

Wear a cup. (And it might not be a bad idea for him to put some Vaseline in his groin area to avoid chaffing. It's difficult to find the right size cup for someone with less to protect than Robert Blake's bodyguard.)

If you see some crazy father in the stands talking too loudly and making an absolute fool of himself, just tell me to sit down.

Don't spit in your glove. That's just gross.

Don't buy those contraptions that put a perfect curve in the bill of your cap. Some things are better done "old school."

Don't be surprised, as I was, if a soccer team that's beating you 14-0 takes all its starters out to a standing ovation with five minutes left in the game.

Don't be surprised, as I still am, when you watch a high school football game and notice the same 11 or 12 kids playing offense and defense while 30 other kids who also puked during summer camp and who continue to show up for practice every day stand on the sidelines.


	It's the presence of adults that often ruins the experience for kids.

When it stops being fun ... quit! I'll play catch with you.

Try swimming. (My other son, Sean, had a remarkable experience on a local swim team. It truly was all about "personal bests." The coaches cheered equally hard for, and paid just as much attention to the kids who finished last as they did for the kids with Olympic dreams. Sean's teammates shouted encouragement for everyone right up until the time the last kid touched the wall. It was all about hard work, personal growth and participation. The adults who ran it will have to show me their birth records before I stop believing they're not of this world.)

Don't chew tobacco. You're 7, for Pete's sake!

Chatter is up to the individual. (The following is not for Dan's ears -- Some coaches treat chatter like a swim suit photographer treats the "sandy-butt" shot. It's a requirement). If you don't feel like "doing the chatter," my suggestion is to do it with your own personal style. One of my favorites was to say: "C'mon, Tommy! C'mon, kid. C'mon, Tommy, he's a little T-pot. That's right. Humm it in there. Short and stout. Tip him over, Tommy. Pour him out! SAAA-Wing batter!" It's especially effective if you happen to be the catcher.

Remember, Daniel. You're not playing for me. You're not playing for your coach, and you're not playing for glory. You're playing to get girls.

Now, get out there and win! The Parochial "C" division championship in Jerkwater, USA, is on the line. Do you have any idea how important that is?

"Not at all?"

That's my boy!

Bob Halloran is an anchorman for ESPNEWS.