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Bosco’s Corner: Learning to sympathize with parents

By Anthony Bosco

I have been threatening — in my mind at least — to dedicate this weekly space in the subtle art of lambasting those overzealous parents who seemingly populate the world of scholastic athletics, as well as Little League baseball, soccer, etc.

But now that I find myself on that threshold, ready to let loose with a flurry of adjectives usually reserved for the Gestapo or the communist horde of the 1950s and 1960s, I just can’t bring myself to tear down these people. At least not the way I originally had planned.

And it is not for lack of material, mind you. Over the many years I have sat in this post I have seen all sorts of things that turned my stomach worse than a bean burrito. In fact, some of the lengths to which certain parents have gone to promote their child should be classified by the U.S. government and thrown into the same cellar where they are holding the UFO that crashed at Roswell.

Yes, my friends, it is that bad. Whether it be the parent who brought sheets and sheets of statistics to my office to prove his son deserved to be starting on a certain high school varsity team or the countless phone messages I have received about coaches, opposing players, administrators, you name it, all of whom coincidentally are conspiring against this particular person’s offspring.

And that’s not even including the ridiculous and boorish behavior some of these parents put on display at the actual games, going so far as to curse at or verbally abuse anyone in sight, including their own child, if things aren’t going according to their ethereal vision of athletic perfection.

This kind of moronic behavior starts almost as soon as little Johnny or Jannie is old enough to lace up a pair of spikes or skates or whatever. That’s right. Some poor children suffer the indignity of a parent living vicariously through their performance on the sporting field before they are old enough to understand the meaning of the sentence I am typing.

As bad as all this is, it is not as bad as a parent literally beating another parent, coach or official to death, as happened recently in Massachusetts.

And while I find a lot of what I have seen and heard contemptible to an infinite degree, a recent experience changed my thinking on this kind of behavior. Though I still believe some parents need to seek therapy if their child is going to play organized sports, I at least got a little taste of what it is like from their perspective.

I have yet to experience the gift of parenthood (and at this rate, I never will, much to my mother’s chagrin) but I am fortunate enough to have two young godchildren, the beautiful and talented Jade, an 8-year-old precocious and adorable girl, and the irrepressible and completely charming Cole, a soon-to-be 5-year-old who makes me laugh harder than I do while listening to staccato jaunts of Oingo Boingo.

These two wonderful children belong to my friends Greg and Christine, two former Queens residents who fled the borough a few years ago for the more serene confines of Westchester, where you are more likely to see a deer taking a drink from the family pool than a stranger bathing in it.

Greg and Christine recently invited me to their home on a Saturday morning to watch my two godchildren play in two separate games, Cole in T-ball and Jade in soccer. So off I went, crossing the Throgs Neck Bridge and heading north with a portable chair in my trunk, completely prepared for a day of watching little kids play sports — on my day off.

Cole’s t-ball game came first. My friend Greg, who only recently tried to learn the rudimentary rules of baseball, acted as coach for Cole and his teammates, all of whom wore caps five sizes too big, yet looked ridiculously adorable.

These kids are barely big enough to swing a bat, but they tried very hard to run, catch, throw and swing like the pros. A 30-minute practice was followed by a quick quasi-game against the team practicing next to them on the neighboring field.

The game consisted of one full inning, sort of. Each player on both teams got to bat and run the bases, while the other team played the field. It was sloppy, a little disorganized, yet unbelievable fun. Cole spent the entire game trash talking to the other team and hit a pretty decent single through the right side. I was beaming.

On to soccer. We all then traveled across town to watch Jade and her teammates take on another group of young boys and girls. This game was more competitive, with the girls playing a real game with officials and two full teams. Jade played everywhere from forward to defender, and occasionally got in on the play.

But, as I had done while watching Cole, I couldn’t help but cheer like the partisan observer I was. Every time Jade got close to the ball, I was calling out her name and watching intently, hoping and praying she did well.

Of course, I didn’t scream at or punch anyone. No parent did. But I got a little taste of where that kind of behavior comes from, that feeling of wanting to see your child — in my case, godchild — succeed at all costs.

I just hope I can remain as calm if I ever have children of my own.

Reach Sports Editor Anthony Bosco by e-mail at Timesledger@aol.com or call 229-0300, Ext. 130.