The ref had had enough. He turned to the dad on the sidelines who had been yelling at him and sternly said, “Sir, go to your car.” The dad did not. He reminded the ref, louder, how wrong he had been about his most recent call. “Sir, if you do not go back to your car, I will forfeit this game!”
The dad’s kid ran across the field and pleaded with his father to go to his car. The dad picked up his lawn chair and turned toward the parking lot, walked a few steps, and turned back toward the ref. He yelled again at the ref. “Dad, please!!!”
The dad turned away again, took another few steps toward the parking lot, still yelling but not directly at the ref. The ref stood still, arms crossed, brow furrowed, watching the dad. The dad turned around again toward the ref to give him one more last piece of his mind. The ref blew his whistle. “That’s it! The game is forfeited.” The ref and assistant refs left the field.
This happened last spring during my son’s soccer game. These were 12-year-olds. The father was from the opposing team and they were losing a close game. Because of one dad, the game ended early.
If you have ever been to a youth sports game, you have experienced situations like this. Some parents seem to act like they are at a Bears/Packer game, yelling at their kids, yelling at the refs. It’s ridiculous.
The purpose of a child to play a sport is to get physical activity, develop a love for sport, make new friends, learn how to deal with challenges, develop team building skills and, most of all, have fun. It is not to become Megan Rapinoe.
The purpose of the referee is to keep the players safe and make the game as fair as possible. They are not going to be perfect. In fact, that imperfection provides kids with the opportunity to learn how to overcome unfair obstacles, a key fact of adult life.
None of the teammates of my kids are going to be professional soccer players. A few may get college scholarships, which is certainly very valuable, but it is unlikely I will see any of them in a World Cup.
I think parents forget this. I know they want the best for their kids but some have lost sight of the reason their kids are playing in the first place. I think they yell to protect their child and help their child. They are doing neither.
When a child makes a mistake, they know it. They don’t need “reinforcement” from their parents. When a ref makes a mistake, he or she makes a mistake. So what! The kids, like the pros in this case, need to learn to move on to the next play and overcome the refs mistake because that is how life is in the real world. Yelling at the ref makes the child think that behavior is right, and it isn’t.
I have progressively got quieter on the sidelines over the years. I was like most parents and yelled at refs and told my kids what to do on the pitch. Listening to other parents do that made me rethink my actions. I thought about how I would feel if I was their child. It made me cringe.
The vitriol from parents at the refs is awful. I have refereed soccer and remember how demoralizing it feels. When I did yell at a ref as a parent on the sidelines, I was more than likely right because I know the game, but it was still wrong to do. They made a mistake, maybe, but now I have chosen to remain quiet. So many refs quit every year but they are a critical part of the game. It’s not worth it to argue a call if the result is the ref quits. Most refs are good and try hard and make a mistake from time to time. That’s life.
Most parents don’t know the game well and yell at the refs about calls they don’t understand. I stick up for the refs now on the sidelines. If the parents on my team yell at the ref, I calmly explain the call and why it was right. Occasionally, I tell them the ref got it wrong and I tell them it’s no big deal. It happens. It’s part of the game. Oh, and the kids are 12!
Even for those few parents who know the game well their child is playing, they have no excuse for abusing the ref or umpire. The refs are doing their best and they are going to make mistakes which is part of the game. No ref is purposely trying to disadvantage your kid.
I feel like some parents think a ref or coach or teammate or opposing player is treating their child unfairly. We all have our opinion on what is “fair”, though. And fair is not whatever is good for my child. And fair is never really fair anyway.
Anytime my kids complain about a ref I always ask them, “Did the ref put the ball in your net?” Sure, she made a few bad calls, I explain, but you have to overcome those. That’s part of the game. That’s part of life.
For me when it comes to youth sports, mom’s advice is best: if you have nothing good to say, say nothing at all.
Originally published 11/17/2011 on Momaha.com
In general, I am a fan of birds. Most of them are beautiful and graceful and can fly which, let’s face it, all of us wish we could do.
Cardinals and blue jays are my favorites. They are beautiful and colorful birds that you don’t see very often. When I see one, I usually stop what I’m doing and admire them until they fly away.
We even have a pet bird. Well, at least the kids have claimed it as our pet. It’s a hawk and his name is Jerry.
He (or she, we haven’t actually checked) enjoys hunting the empty lot near our home for mice and snatching sparrows out of the sky. He loves to perch on the lamppost outside our back windows. Once he devoured his prey on the top of our swing set while our kids watched in fascinated silence.
There are some birds, however, I could do without. Like the barn swallows who dive bomb me while I’m mowing the yard. Or the sparrows who crap all over our deck.
But there is one bird in particular that I hate and never want my children to see. It’s small and slender and has no feathers. It is most commonly known as “the finger.”
I saw this “bird” on a day that was already on the top 10 bad days of the year. A woman backed up and hit my car in the church parking lot right after I dropped off our two older girls for religious education. No one was hurt which was good, but now I had insurance companies and repair shops to call. This dad was already busy enough!
About an hour later, I returned to church to pick up the girls. On our way home, a guy in a small, red SUV believed I cut him off when I merged into his lane. I was pretty sure there was plenty of room between our vehicles and I didn’t feel like I did something wrong, but the long blare of his horn suggested that he did not agree. “Daddy,” one of the kids said from the back, “why did that guy honk at you?” “He thought I was driving wrong,” I replied.
At the next light, I moved into the left turn lane and the guy pulled up right beside me. I noticed him out of the corner of my eye but ignored him partly out of embarrassment but mostly out of indifference. What could I do now anyway?
When the light turned green, I noticed his vehicle did not move. I continued to ignore him so he honked his horn to get my attention. Even though I knew what was coming, I couldn’t stop the natural reflex to turn my head in his direction.
And there was that nasty, ugly bird.
Now, I can appreciate someone getting upset for being cut off on the road. It has happened to me before. Heck, it has happened to all of us. But do you really need to flip the bird at somebody in a minivan that is likely full of kids?
He left that middle finger pointed directly at me for about 5 seconds while he yelled what I presumed was an obscenity-laced tirade about my driving inabilities and then slammed on the accelerator to speed away. Unfortunately for him, it had snowed earlier that day so the road was a bit icy and, for a moment, his vehicle went nowhere.
I reached for the door handle. A person can feel tough encased in 2 tons of metal and get away with acting like a jerk, I thought, but how about face-to-face in front of my children? How tough will he feel when I ask him if it’s worth it to flip me and our kids the bird? And, yes, a small part of me wondered if I would feel better slugging the guy, something I have never done before.
Before I got the door open, his tires gripped the pavement and he squealed away. The kids, luckily, saw none of this because they were engrossed in a movie on the DVD player in the back. I shook my head, chuckled to myself for the incredibly stupid idea I had to confront the guy, turned left and continued home.
I’m sure all of us at one time or another has flipped the bird at somebody while driving. Traffic is stressful and some people probably shouldn’t be allowed on the road. But, isn’t there at least a little etiquette? Everybody knows you never flip off an old lady or a guy who looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Its time we add people in minivans to the list.
Out of no where, this short new kid began pushing me backward into the middle of the school’s courtyard until I fell and my books scattered in the grass. It was a few months into 9th grade. For whatever reason, this kid picked me to show everyone he was tough or cool or something. I was an easy target. I was tall, near anorexically thin, shy and a good two years from puberty. In those first few months of 9th grade, this short new kid terrorized me. He knocked my books out of my hand. He made fun of me. Once he grabbed my books off my desk and threw them out of the classroom. Now he was ready for the final blow. He was going to kick my ass.
He was not my first bully. I don’t really remember who was. All I remember is being made fun of a lot by many other kids, starting about 6th grade. It was miserable. I was scared most days at school. I tried to be invisible to protect myself. I sat in the back of class, never raised my hand, avoided eye contact and walked quickly from one class to the next. The teasing didn’t stop but I felt I contained it to a minimum. That was, until this short new kid started school and needed to feel important.
Kids abandoned the hallways and encircled us. The bully was standing and glaring at me lying on the ground surrounded by my books. No one wanted to miss the ass-kicking. I stayed down but I was furious and frightened. I wanted to stand up and punch this kid right in the face. Never have I ever wanted to fight someone more in my life. At the same time, I wanted to hide or disappear. I did not want to be there. My breath quickened and I felt my face turn hot. I started to get up and the the circle around us grew louder. The other kids were about to witness a fight, sure to be the highlight of the week, maybe the year.
I disappointed them.
There was no way I was going to win a fight with this kid, or any other kid for that matter. I knew I was weak and I knew I would look ridiculous. It would have been like Apollo Creed fighting Adrian instead of her fighter boyfriend Rocky. I sat up on my knees with my head down and slowly gathered up my books. Inside I was seething with anger and trembling with fear. The short new kid was probably taunting me, baiting me to fight him, but I didn’t hear anything. I held in my anger, and my tears, got up with my books and started walking away, my head hung low. There was no doubt in my mind this kid was going to tackle me from behind and start wailing on me as he intended. But nothing happened. Everyone went silent. The circle broke away, allowing me to pass, dumbfounded. Squeezing my face tightly to hold back a waterfall of tears, I walked to my next class.
It was the last day that kid ever bothered me.
My instinct was to fight back but my brain knew that was impossible. What I did not realize at the time, but know now, is that the bully, all bullies actually, was more scared than me. He was afraid of himself. He didn’t want to feel insignificant. He needed attention to feel good about himself. When I didn’t give him what he wanted, he left me alone. Ignoring a bully, unbeknownst to me at the time, is one of the best strategies to protect yourself.
Eventually I hit puberty but my shy nature and flimsy frame continued to make me an obvious target for bullies.
I was a junior in college, living off campus for the first time, when I found myself in a similar situation to 9th grade. I was living with my best friend, Mike, and another guy I knew, Jimmy. Jimmy was a large man, a few inches taller and at least twice my weight. He knew his size compared to mine would intimidate me and after a few months he began to use it.
One night, he and I got into an argument. I do not remember what it was but I am sure it was about something he wanted me to do for him that I was not going to do. He became enraged, got in my face and yelled menacingly at me. I was backed into a corner of the kitchen and his anger grew when I refused to acquiesce to his demand. My best friend, Mike, who was about as lightweight as me, grabbed our phone and dialed 9-1-1.
Jimmy backed off. A few minutes later the cops arrived. They talked to me and tried to talk to Jimmy. I was shaking but otherwise okay. Jimmy went to his room unwilling to talk to the cops. The cops asked if I wanted to file a domestic violence report but I declined. I didn’t think Jimmy would be violent. He had the chance but just yelled at me. As long as that was all I had to endure, I could manage, especially knowing my best friend had my back. Strangely, being bullied as a teen gave me strength mentally I didn’t have physically. I also felt Jimmy was embarrassed by his actions. Shortly afterward, he moved out and we found a new roommate, Jason, who cared way more about his girlfriend than intimidating me.
As I moved into adulthood, bullying followed. My earlier experiences, however, taught me a lot. I had survived a couple very serious incidents and hundreds of smaller ones. I also grew in confidence. I wouldn’t say I had a lot but I had enough that I knew I could stand up for myself.
In 2011, I became President of the National At-Home Dad Network, a non-profit organization creating community for stay-at-home dads. Our primary function was hosting an annual convention. We had agreed to host the convention in Washington DC that year, the home town of one of the founding board members, Mike (another Mike, not my best friend from college). I had worked with Mike for the past 2 years on the board. He was taller and heavier than my former roommate Jimmy.
Mike was put in charge of the convention and the planning committee of about 20 dads from around the country. However, Mike would not work with anyone on the committee. He took great offense to being asked about the progress planning the convention. As the months of 2011 ticked by, I became concerned with the lack of information from Mike. Instead of sharing his plans with me, he attacked me in phone calls and emails, accusing me of not trusting him and trying to take over the convention planning. Since Mike was unwilling to share any details with anyone, the board voted to remove him as convention chairman. We discovered he had done almost nothing to plan the event. He was trying to bully me so I wouldn’t find out he was failing. It was May and the convention was scheduled for October.
Everybody pulled together and made the 16th Annual At-Home Dads Convention happen. It was, in fact, the most attended convention of the previous 5 years. Mike came and was very helpful with things on the ground. He did not bully me or anyone else that weekend. Nearly every day that year, though, I was highly anxious, scared and frustrated. I frequently felt like I was trembling inside. It was a strain on me and my family but I was proud of myself and everyone who came together to make the event a success.
Mike’s bullying of me, however, did not end. At the following convention, also in DC, he spoke in front of all the attendees about something (I forget what it was) he strongly disagreed with me about. I ignored him. He wrote negatively about me on Facebook every so often the next couple years. I would reply respectfully with truth to his misleading accusations but otherwise ignored him. His abuse stopped after I stepped down as President of the National At-Home Dad Network in 2015.
I have not experienced any significant bullying incident since, but I expect I will sometime in the future. There are people who need to tear others down to feel better about themselves. It is an unfortunate reality of humanity.
Bullying, at its core, is about fear. There is something within a person who bullies that he or she is afraid to face or afraid others will find out. To avoid these gnawing feelings of unimportance, self-loathing and weakness, a bully finds someone to beat up or terrorize so he or she can feel superior. The bully is driven by an all consuming fear of his or her brokenness being revealed.
I wish I could go back to that scared, ashamed 9th grader who was trying to hold back his tears and tell him I was going to be okay. I wish I could tell him how wonderful his life was going to be if he could hold on and persevere. I wish he could see my life now instead of fearing the next day being worse than the day before. Perhaps I would have been less miserable, had fewer bouts of depression. Maybe I would have become more confident in myself a lot sooner. I do know that I am happy about who I am today, most of the time. My traumas have not defined me. My survival has.