Not my Precious!
If your kids are older than 4, then you feel my pain when I say that I owe an apology to a lot of referees. I may also owe one to a ton of teachers and a pastor or two, but those are stories for a different day. Referees, though. They see the best of kids and the worst of adults. Luckily, at some point between my first one starting softball and my last one finishing collegiate lacrosse, I woke to the jarring reality that my darling daughters may have been, on rare occasions, at fault.
The kids start out so freaking cute. It’s all brightly colored tee shirts (or, ‘costumes’ as my ballet-loving Eldest referred to them), hair bows, miniature cleats, and kids roaming in a punch drunk looking scrum. Doesn’t matter the sport, they all look the same for a year or two. Basketball, soccer, lacrosse, football, gymnastics, swim – just a mass of uncoordinated bodies with no real concept but a lot of energy burning off. If you’re sitting here thinking oh nooooo, my darling had field sense at age 5, then I am laughing back at you. Because, no way. They’re cute. That’s all we can say. And if you still think that yours will be, are, or were ready for the draft at that point, then stop right now and get in line behind me for some apologizing to those zebras.
They soon age into being coached with some level of education as to the actual sport. If you and your angels are lucky, then have a coach who can teach. Most often, though, it’s a parent like me who is trying her best but may not have a master’s in sports science. So while you are learning and the kids are learning, the refs are also learning. Mostly, what they are learning is to stay the heck away from the sidelines.
It’s not that I was one of those who knew more than the refs. I’m willing to admit ignorance. Heck, I’ve been watching ice hockey for forty years and still can’t explain the icing rule. Nor am I a parent who played, so I’m not railing because my angle from the sidelines is better than the referee who is in position.
No, what I couldn’t stand was when someone took aim at one of my darlings. Girls’ sports, you know, are non-contact. Ha. My angels had a knack for attracting elbows, wayward kicks, the butt end of sticks, you name it. I knew that the collisions were intentional, that those children had it out for my darlings, and that the attacker’s parents needing child-rearing lessons. To top it off, I knew that the refs were deep in the pockets of the opposing team. I let that be known. I wasn’t alone. Us moms, we became banshees when our princesses were being bruised. Because you know, they were never the instigators. Never.
Then one day Middle was playing a seventh-grade spring lacrosse game. One of the stars for the crosstown rival team was a little thing who packed a mean punch in fall soccer, let’s call her “Glenda”. The rival team was flying downfield, Glenda carrying the ball. With three defenders around her she goes down in a heap of arms, legs, sticks, and screams. The referee was behind the play and caught up waving a yellow card high, looking wildly for which player to penalize. I knew who the ‘right’ player is since I had seen her stick come out in a very illegal crosscheck. But the right kid, my angel, has somehow snuck her way across the field and was out of the ref’s eyesight, giggling with her teammates about Glenda’s comeuppance. And her teammates, those sweet young things, not one of them wanted to point out Middle. Oh lordy. My eyes knew what I saw, yet my brain kept denying that my baby was the heavy.
Not two months later, Eldest is playing in a summer club lacrosse tournament. Just out of eighth grade, these girls were still wide-eyed innocence behind their warrior selves. It’s a pretty intense tournament. The game was hotly contested between two of the top clubs, both of which were led with tempered ferocity by stellar coaches. The other bleacher moms and I nervously recalled rough games with the opponent and were on edge on the sidelines. Eldest turned on the field with a full head of steam to chase down a loose ball. Going in, she lowered her shoulder and caught the opposing player, who was also after the ball, sending the opponent an easy ten yards in the opposite direction. Tweeet. Okay, no escaping this one. As she trotted off the field, we heard her righteous indignation from across the pitch: “Mr. Joe, that girl just called me a m*#@rf^#r.” We stood in shocked silence for a moment. Her coach’s reply: “I’d have called you one too if you hit me like that.” Yikes. She was just playing the ball. Then, the realization hit. There was a parent on the other sideline thinking that my princess was the hoodlum, that I was the bad mother, and that while I’d never seen this referee before I had somehow managed to pay him off pregame.
That was the turning point. Fast forward a few years. Youngest, almost out of high school, comes trotting off the field after a very-unusual-for-her yellow card during a club lacrosse game. I thought it was a clean hit that she had laid on the opposing player and didn’t understand the call, but shrugged and went back to the sideline chatter. Come to find out that Youngest wasn’t carded for the hit. No, she was carded when she leaned into the player she hit, who may have laid on the ground a tad long, and said a few choice words about her whining. That, from my sweetest, quietest, nicest of my darlings.
At that point I had long realized that not only were my darlings not perfect, but that the sidelines could be a lot of fun when you were with like-minded parents. On both teams. Who weren’t raising juvenile delinquents, and who are happy to share coolers with you. The camaraderie and sportsmanship blossomed. I’d like to say that the cosmos that occasionally showed up in the parents’ water bottles helped ease future yellow cards and made us appreciate the referees a bit more. Yet, I suspect there were times that it made their jobs a little harder. ‘Coach, can you get your parents under control, the dance parties are distracting the goalies.’
To all the referees out there, on every level, my sincerest apologies for my misbehaviors. I know you work to keep the games under control. I know you don’t have favorites. I know you are in better position than I am to see the play. And, I know you’re not paid nearly well enough to take the non-stop grief.
Moral of this story: If you find yourself certain that your precious is being targeted by a thug in opposing colors with a jerk for a coach and refs who don’t care, then pick up a mirror. If that doesn’t cure you, then pick up a whistle. Remember how stinking cute those kids were when they started? If they’re still smiling when they’re finished, then you did good.
Much love – Tessa
