MOMS Column: A Tutorial on Kid Sports

When I was pregnant for the first time, I devoured books that gave all sorts of important advice, like what kind of cheese I could safely eat (not Brie). When the babies were born, parenting magazines arrived with such regularity that I knew I could always depend on getting some leading-expert-in-the-field’s opinion on “understanding my baby’s cry” (what a load of bunk). When the boys were toddlers, I could count on well meaning old ladies to provide unsolicited advice at the mall (“No, ma’am, my child isn’t drinking chocolate milk. He refuses regular milk, so his doctor suggested Ovaltine. But thanks for your concern.”)

But now that the boys are in elementary school, advice seems a little more difficult to come by. When people see us coming, they look away rather than throw me some bones of wisdom.

But it’s these years, I’ve decided, that are fraught with the most danger and when the advice would be the most welcome. Because let’s face it: It’s Sports Registration Season … and although I personally don’t remember actually playing a sport until middle school (what happened to junior high?), it’s common to see three year olds kicking miniature soccer balls (and when, exactly, did soccer balls start coming in different sizes, anyway?) or four year olds dragging a baseball bat longer than they are tall.

So before you eagerly sign up your preschooler for a sport, let me offer a few words of (unsolicited) advice about a few of the seemingly most popular sports:

1)   Swimming: Whatever you do, don’t let your child know that indoor pools exist and competitive swimming occurs year-round. Sure, let them join the neighborhood swim team for a few weeks in the summer. You’ll enjoy getting to go to the pool before the pool’s normal operating hour of 11AM (don’t pool managers know that kids have been up since 6AM?), chatting with other swim team moms, and beating the heat before it hits 100. But after Labor Day, you’ll be waking up at 4AM to drive your child to some distant pool to swim 847 laps before their classmates have even woken up.

2)   Ice hockey: [Disclaimer: Ice hockey is my favorite sport. I used to hold season tickets to the Caps games. I have a gold pendant of a hockey stick. I am always freezing. 20 minutes into Bikram (aka “hot”) yoga, my fingers finally thaw. After 90 minutes, I haven’t broken a sweat.] Do not, under any circumstances, allow your child to play ice hockey. We live in Northern Virginia, and the only thing “northern” about it is that it’s north of southern Virginia. There are no frozen ponds here. There are very few indoor ice rinks, and none are in Falls Church. You will be waking up at 4AM to drive your child to some distant ice rink for precious ice time before school. And you’ll freeze while you wait for him to practice slap shots.

3)   Flag football: It sounds so innocuous. Fun, even. Children running playfully around on a brisk day with brightly colored flags dancing from their waists while parents stand on the sidelines with warm mugs of coffee. But ask yourself this: “What happens if my child falls in love with football and wants to keep playing?” Then, let your mind play the always-fun game of free word association. If “concussion” and “blown out knees” come to mind, scratch flag football from your list.

4)   Lacrosse: Helmets, mouth guards and football-player-esque pads are involved. Ask yourself the same questions.

5)  Basketball: I don't know about your kid, but mine is about four feet tall. And the hoop is what, like, 10 feet in the air? That's just too hard. I want to wear the kid out, not break his spirit.

6)   Baseball: Ahhhh … the boys of summer. The Opening Day parade, Girl Scout color guards, Coca-Colas that still cost a quarter. Emerald green grass. An umpire barking, “Play Ball!” Adorable children in their white pants, bright shirts, caps that still can’t hide their sweet cheeks. It’s enough to make you want to break out your American flag and belt out the anthem. And Little League starts us out so easy with tee-ball: every kid gets a chance to bat, there are no strikes, everyone gets to run, no one keeps score, game’s over in three innings (unless it’s too hot or unless half the team needs a potty break at the bottom of the second). By the end of the season, every kid gets a “game ball” in recognition of an outstanding play, or in recognition that they haven’t gotten a game ball yet. Life is beautiful. But soon, one practice a week expands to three practices a week. An hour-long game extends to multiple hours. In the heat. (Trust me, there is no shade on baseball fields, and the gnats are particularly troublesome at West Gate.) When boys and girls reach the tender age of seven or eight, there are “skills assessments,” during which more than a dozen grown men line a gym with clipboards. Parents stand in the hallway, wondering what’s going on in there? Kids come out, some crying that they didn’t get a hit, others grinning that they got a hit and caught a fly. We remind ourselves but they’re only eight.

7)   Soccer: You’ve waited a long time for this … the lure of finally being a soccer mom. You’ve got your folding chair, coordinated plans with other moms to tote along some appetizers and snacks for practices that coincide with happy hour.  Kids pour out of minivans wearing shin guards so thick they look like leggy thoroughbreds at the Kentucky Derby. Practice is once a week; games are on the weekend and never last more than an hour. As they get older, practices are once a week, games are on the weekend and never last more than an hour. At the tender age of seven or eight, there are still no goalies, and the score still isn’t kept. There are no skills assessments; the only skill you need is knowing how old they are so that they’re placed with their age group. No wonder soccer is the fastest growing sport in America. [Disclaimer: I have yet to discover the fine print of soccer.]

So this spring, I have a boy playing his fourth year of baseball, a sport that he loves so devoutly he’s been known to sleep with his game ball. And I’m proud of him … I genuinely love going to his games, seeing the delight on his face when bat connects with ball, watching his team in the dugout looking freakishly like miniature men. And I’d feel like I was missing out if our family didn’t get to take part in Opening Day and hit-a-thons and the general baseball-apple pie-Chevrolet good karma of America’s Pastime.

But when the younger boy decided that he’d rather play soccer again this year instead of trying baseball, I nearly wept with relief. Because one boy in baseball I can handle; two I cannot.