You see it often.
The father that can’t get enough of being around the game and his son. From the time his little prodigy can pick up a baseball, they’re together in the backyard or at the ball field playing catch, fielding ground balls and fly balls, and taking rounds of batting practice.
They’re the first to arrive at the field, and usually the last to leave. Rides to and from practices and games serve as makeshift review sessions on what young Johnny did well, and what he needs to work on.
Dad doubles as Coach from Tee Ball through Little League and then on travel teams, hauling Johnny, teammates and equipment from practice to games to camps, even on weekend trips to tournaments played hours from home.
The fundamentals, the work ethic, really the general makeup of Johnny the Ballplayer comes in large part due to the countless hours his Dad put in with him on the field and during those conversations in the car, over dinner, or while watching a ballgame on TV. Chances are pretty good that Johnny wouldn’t be the player he is without his Dad’s guidance all those years during youth ball.
And then Johnny hits that middle school age. He’s got the solid base of fundamentals and mechanics, his talent has blossomed, and others have taken notice that he’s one of the better players on his team or in his league. He hears those other players, coaches and parents telling him how good of a player he’s become. Naturally, that can lead to a big head. Additionally, he’s developing a bit of a chip on his shoulder. Because that’s what kids his age do, regardless of whether or not they’re a baseball player.
And now, the combination of him buying into what others are saying about his talents, and that chip that continues to grow on his shoulder with every double off the fence or gem on the mound, has caused Johnny to drown Dad’s voice out. What used to be a healthy on-field relationship between father and son that would make Cal Ripken Senior and Junior smile, now resembles the relationship Billy Martin and Reggie Jackson shared during the Bronx Zoo days.
Girls and other distractions have entered the picture. School coursework continues to grow more difficult as high school nears. Looking “swag” doesn’t include animated father-son mound conferences or extra ground ball work with pops after practice; ‘C’mon Dad, I have a reputation, stop embarrassing me’.
The inevitable has come to fruition. He has outgrown Dad the Coach.
Johnny still needs Dad. We sons always will. He just doesn’t need Dad the Coach anymore. He needs Dad the Fan, Dad the Cheerleader, and Dad the Proud Father, who tells him he loves him and he’s proud of him no matter if he hit a walk-off double or went 0-for-4 and made two errors in the field.
Dad, he might not tell you today. In fact, he might not tell you for another 20 years. But, eventually, Johnny will tell you how much you meant to his baseball career. He’ll tell you how those life lessons you taught him and his teammates team helped him off the field as well as on it. And he’ll tell you how much he enjoyed that time he spent with you around the game all those years.
But now it’s time to hang up the clipboard, slide around to the other side of the fence, and enjoy the ballplayer Johnny has become, and will hopefully continue to develop into. It will be good for him to hear different voices when being coached and instructed.
Your relationship may improve with him while in your new role. And who knows, you might just enjoy that side of the fence; there’s less pressure over there, you can ride the umpires as much as you’d like, and your elbow and back will appreciate the reprieve from the hour-long BP sessions.
And who knows, maybe it won’t take Johnny 20 years to let you know how much how much he appreciates what you did for him.
The image used is titled 'Boy and Father: Baseball Dispute', a piece of artwork by Norman Rockwell.
