By: Lora Wimsatt
I’ve always remembered those words, a simple statement from a father about his son.
We were sitting in the bleachers at a baseball game that summer afternoon. My son played for one team, his for the opposing team. I don’t remember how it happened that I was standing next to him; I was probably on my way to the concession stand.
Anyway, we struck up a conversation – I’m sure it started with something generic about the weather (hot) or the quality of the concession stand hot dogs (excellent) – but somewhere along the way, we got on the topic of parents who think their kids are the best athletes to ever step cleat on a field.
His son was a catcher, and a good one, and I said so.
My son played outfield. I thought he was good too, but I never said so. I didn’t want to sound like I was bragging.
I sure didn’t want to sound like some of those parents who cried and complained that their kid should have been the starting pitcher, the lead-off batter, team captain, All Star …
As we watched, the shortstop made a wild throw to first, and I winced as another parent, two bleachers away, screamed at the coach to take “that kid” out and put her son in the game.
To me, it wasn’t a question of whether her kid would have made the out or not.
I cringed as the parent’s tirade continued, wondering how her son, who had slunk into the shadows of the dugout, must have felt. I felt sorrier for him than I did the kid who made the wild throw.
The parent of the current shortstop, however, felt no such pity. Jumping to her feet, she began to scream at the other mom.
“So what do you think of that?”
I glanced at the guy standing next to me. I had hoped he wouldn’t ask me that.
Slowly, I replied, “I guess every parent thinks their kid is the best.”
Secretly, I was wondering to myself, “What kind of conversation does a parent and a kid have at home after an exhibition like this?”
He nodded. And then, as if reading my mind, he said, “You know, my son has always been a good ballplayer, from his very first year in rookie league, but he’s had a few bad games along the way. But no matter what, there’s one thing I’ve always said to him on the ride home from the game: ‘Son, you’re the best there ever was.’”
I nodded, mumbled some kind of reply, and went on to the concession stand, thankful that regardless of the behavior of Little League parents, at least I could depend on the hot dogs to be good.
That conversation was a lot of years ago – a lot of ballgames, a lot of hot dogs ago.
For some reason, that statement stayed with me. For a long time, I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.
Some kids – let’s be honest – are not “the best” at baseball, or dancing, or mathematics, or painting, or swimming, or singing, or whatever the activity in question might be.
The kid knows it. And surely the parent does too.
So why say it?
As the years have gone by, I’ve realized a couple of things.
The first one I already knew. Parents who make a big scene really aren’t doing their kids any favors.
But here’s the other thing: All kids – from the All-Star hot-shot starting pitcher to the bottom-of-the-lineup benchwarmer – all kids need to know Mom and Dad are their biggest fans.
I called all four of my kids the other day. I told each one the same thing.
“You’re the best there ever was.”