I had heard the complaint before in other places, at other times. “I struggle with wanting my child to participate in summer little league baseball and still have time for our family events, not to mention participation in church,” the concerned mother told me over the phone. “It just seems like we can’t do it all.” In her particular situation, baseball games were being scheduled not only on Sundays, but on Sunday mornings--- a definite conflict for Christians who want their family to worship together. As a parent, and as a pastor, I understood.
This is not an isolated, local problem. The Wall Street Journal printed an article on July 21, 2010, about the challenge parents face when involvement in organized team sports begins to overwhelm families, interfering with vacations, stealing visits from grandparents, aunts and uncles, consuming weekends, leaving no time for family leisure and outings. Although the story focused on elite youth sport teams that often requires a year-long commitment, the gist of the report was that parents are pushing back and sometimes withdrawing their kids from these programs so that the family can maintain a more balanced and healthy lifestyle.
Let’s face it; few if any of the kids who play little league sports will ever make a career of it. Even of those that play competitive sports in high school, less that 1% ever makes it to the pros. For baseball it’s 0.44%; for football, 0.08%. If becoming a pro is the dream, the odds are not in your favor.
But team sports do have a definite positive side: sports can teach young people how to cooperate with one another in attaining a common goal; they can teach basic life skills---like how to deal with conflict--- and develop athletic abilities for further participation in competitive sports. Involvement in youth sports has been traced to improved self-esteem, lower obesity rates, and improved grades in school.
So, what to do about the time constraints youth sports--- particularly summer sports--- put on families? The problem is best dealt with before the season begins. When we give other people the permission to establish our priorities, they inevitably will. If we let the city’s little league game coordinator determine our summer schedule, he/she will. And it will likely be at our expense. A clear sense of priorities is the only way I know of steering the family ship through the sea of summer frustrations.
If the goal for your child’s involvement is to make him/her a more complete and integrated person, then let the coach or little league committee know your goals from the very beginning. If your priorities are God first, family second, and summer league baseball third, then why let a summer sports scheduler reverse the order of your life purposes?
After all, just how much is that first place trophy worth, anyway? Is it worth tearing up your family’s summer schedule? Only the parent can determine that. But remember, your priorities do reflect your values.
As a parent who rarely missed one of my son’s little league games, I have observed that the problem of over emphasizing competitiveness in youth sports is more frequently driven by parents who are trying to fulfill their own dreams as athletes through their children. Kids will generally take the sport about as seriously or lightheartedly as the parents and coaches do. I recall watching a coach shout at a 4th grader in a city league football practice: “What do you think this is?” he screamed, “Fun? This is football; it’s not supposed to be fun.”
“Really?” I thought. If it’s not fun how do you expect a child to continue playing the game? I switched my son to a different team with a coach who had a sports philosophy more compatible with mine.
Parents have to remember they are ultimately in control of their children’s activities.
Here’s the bottom line: if the parents refuse to have games on Sundays, or Sunday mornings, it won’t happen, unless coaches are willing to import players from another part of the country. And if they are able to do that, some city has too much money and somebody is thinking too hard about how to waste it. Remember this: youth sports are meant to be fun. In the words of Benny Rodriguez, in the 1993 film, The Sandlot, “Man, this is baseball. You gotta stop thinking. Just have fun.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website, DavidBWhitlock.com.
Showing posts with label Summer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Summer. Show all posts
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
"Hot Town, Summer in the City"
“Hot Town, Summer in the City”
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D.
It’s hot. We are in the middle of the hottest summer since they started keeping records in 1880. And to think that only a few months ago we were complaining about the cold weather.
We tramped out of an unusually cold winter only to find ourselves trudging through a scorching summer. It has proponents on both sides of the global warming issue shouting at each other. The most convinced are the most strident.
This past winter the skeptics of global warming gloated. You recall temperatures were dropping to record lows in many places. It prompted Oklahoma Senator Jim Inhoffe to have a little fun at former Vice-President and global warming spokesman Al Gore’s expense. Inhoffe and family built an igloo with signs that read, “Al GORE’S NEW HOME,” and “HONK IF YOU LOVE GLOBAL WARMING.”
Today global warming advocates are jabbing back, “Are you warm enough yet?” “Feeling the heat?”
I’m not debating; I’m trying to cool off. I’m too tired to argue.
The heat wears us down, draining our energy, replacing our once spirited buoyancy with tired flatness. It’s got me feeling like Pete Bancini, one of the hospital patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, who continually declares, whether anyone is there to listen or not, “I’m tired.”
Fatigue has a close friend; they are almost inseparable: irritability. Ahh, the grumpy factor, a nasty side effect of a long, hot summer. I’m trying to confine my crotchety moments to myself. I can grumble, and then quickly shake it off when I see someone coming. But once in a while, I get an unexpected surprise from a summer heat- lover who sneaks up on me with a “doncha ya love this weather?” greeting, chuckling as he slaps my back, not giving me enough time to change my mood.
But, I’ve got a good excuse for my heat-provoked grouchiness: It’s inherited. I know it is because I can recall the moment I got it. It was a miserably hot summer, 1966. I was sitting in the back seat of my parents’ car. We were in “the city,” that is, Oklahoma City. Shopping never was one of my dad’s favorite activities, and that’s what we were doing. All day long. Because this was before the arrival of indoor shopping malls, we were in and out of one downtown store after another, getting hotter and hotter with each stop. Finally, much to my father’s relief, Mom announced we were finished, and we plopped into the car. Dad immediately flipped the air conditioner on “high” and raced away, trying to beat the afternoon traffic.
I could feel the grumpiness factor invade our automobile almost immediately after I asked Dad for the third time to turn up the volume on the radio, which was attuned to KOMA, the rock and roll AM station, playing at that very moment one of my favorite songs, “Summer in the City,” by the by the Lovin’ Spoonful. I was again about to ask for a little more volume, when Dad, mumbling about how much he hated city traffic, glared at the radio as if it were the reason for the heat, the traffic, the arduous day. “I might be able to maneuver in this traffic better if it weren’t for that blasted radio.” And with that he emphatically twisted the “on” knob to “off.”
No more Lovin’ Spoonful. But the “hot town” aggravation hung with me, and would return through the years in moments of extreme heat, erupting like a volcano letting off steam.
Sitting there in that heavy quietness, I felt---consciously for the first time, I do believe--- grumpity too.
And that’s when I was inoculated with summertime grumpiness.
I started to protest the radio ban with Dad, but I knew I’d best not.
That’s why I’m not arguing about global warming, too: I’d best not, not if I want to keep that summertime grouchiness under control. And I plan to stand firm in my resolve. At least until the first snow in winter.
David B. Whitlock is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, KY. He also teaches in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University, Campbellsville, KY. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D.
It’s hot. We are in the middle of the hottest summer since they started keeping records in 1880. And to think that only a few months ago we were complaining about the cold weather.
We tramped out of an unusually cold winter only to find ourselves trudging through a scorching summer. It has proponents on both sides of the global warming issue shouting at each other. The most convinced are the most strident.
This past winter the skeptics of global warming gloated. You recall temperatures were dropping to record lows in many places. It prompted Oklahoma Senator Jim Inhoffe to have a little fun at former Vice-President and global warming spokesman Al Gore’s expense. Inhoffe and family built an igloo with signs that read, “Al GORE’S NEW HOME,” and “HONK IF YOU LOVE GLOBAL WARMING.”
Today global warming advocates are jabbing back, “Are you warm enough yet?” “Feeling the heat?”
I’m not debating; I’m trying to cool off. I’m too tired to argue.
The heat wears us down, draining our energy, replacing our once spirited buoyancy with tired flatness. It’s got me feeling like Pete Bancini, one of the hospital patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, who continually declares, whether anyone is there to listen or not, “I’m tired.”
Fatigue has a close friend; they are almost inseparable: irritability. Ahh, the grumpy factor, a nasty side effect of a long, hot summer. I’m trying to confine my crotchety moments to myself. I can grumble, and then quickly shake it off when I see someone coming. But once in a while, I get an unexpected surprise from a summer heat- lover who sneaks up on me with a “doncha ya love this weather?” greeting, chuckling as he slaps my back, not giving me enough time to change my mood.
But, I’ve got a good excuse for my heat-provoked grouchiness: It’s inherited. I know it is because I can recall the moment I got it. It was a miserably hot summer, 1966. I was sitting in the back seat of my parents’ car. We were in “the city,” that is, Oklahoma City. Shopping never was one of my dad’s favorite activities, and that’s what we were doing. All day long. Because this was before the arrival of indoor shopping malls, we were in and out of one downtown store after another, getting hotter and hotter with each stop. Finally, much to my father’s relief, Mom announced we were finished, and we plopped into the car. Dad immediately flipped the air conditioner on “high” and raced away, trying to beat the afternoon traffic.
I could feel the grumpiness factor invade our automobile almost immediately after I asked Dad for the third time to turn up the volume on the radio, which was attuned to KOMA, the rock and roll AM station, playing at that very moment one of my favorite songs, “Summer in the City,” by the by the Lovin’ Spoonful. I was again about to ask for a little more volume, when Dad, mumbling about how much he hated city traffic, glared at the radio as if it were the reason for the heat, the traffic, the arduous day. “I might be able to maneuver in this traffic better if it weren’t for that blasted radio.” And with that he emphatically twisted the “on” knob to “off.”
No more Lovin’ Spoonful. But the “hot town” aggravation hung with me, and would return through the years in moments of extreme heat, erupting like a volcano letting off steam.
Sitting there in that heavy quietness, I felt---consciously for the first time, I do believe--- grumpity too.
And that’s when I was inoculated with summertime grumpiness.
I started to protest the radio ban with Dad, but I knew I’d best not.
That’s why I’m not arguing about global warming, too: I’d best not, not if I want to keep that summertime grouchiness under control. And I plan to stand firm in my resolve. At least until the first snow in winter.
David B. Whitlock is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, KY. He also teaches in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University, Campbellsville, KY. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com
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