SUPP(s)PORT.

As spring is springing, I would like to give a shout out to all of the little-league, junior jazz, and little-kid golf (whatever that's called) parents.

It is this time of year, amidst the pollen poisoning and dandelion invasions that I truly have to thank the primo parents who drive their little tots to the more-mud-than-grass parks or the local basketball court that has pretty much been reduced to cement pebbles.

I am, of course, thrilled about the fact that they are volunteering their time to transport their little bundles of boy to an activity that "builds character" or "promotes teamwork" or whatnot, but above all, I am grateful for the entertainment.

It's refreshing to see the fathers who so kindly help Mrs. Blaskenhower cross the street, purple faced and cussing at the ref.

May I just insert here, that I can honestly say I have no idea WHY people yell at refs? I mean, have you ever seen a ref change his mind because of a disgruntled parent? or any ref anywhere change his mind because of anything anyone said?

Ref: "Safe!"
Generic upset sports fan: "What the heck ref?? He was tagged WAY before he hit the base! Are you blind!?!?!?"
Ref: "Oh, pardon me. It seems as though I have made an error. He was clearly out. Uh, change the scoreboard Jimmy."

No, the fuming fans are always left raising the noise pollution until the EPA adds it to the list of Superfund sites.

O.K, O.K. I have to be fair. There are some really GOOD little league parents out there. the kind that buy their sniffling kids chocolate ice cream when they lose, and sit patiently in sheets of rain, waiting for one of the four year olds to finally kick the soccer ball. My heart goes out to you and commend you in your excellent kid- raising techniques.

I had such a father, and he even volunteered to be my soccer team's assistant manager. (which was more than generous, because I was the girl afraid of the ball.) I would love passing the Granite Bakery on our way home from a game. Often when our team lost, he would make that quick stop on the way home to get me a consolation doughnut, and when we won he would make the same stop and get me a doughnut in congratulations.

we would have many car rides where I talked animatedly about how I assisted a team player in making a goal (I figured that every time I kicked the ball, I was helping the next person on my team who scored.) Or we just chatted about school and my day, and everything else an eight year old thinks about.

I miss putting on my generic reversible soccer shirt, and having some quality daddy daughter time with my pops, who had already spent the day working hard at the office.

And while I might not agree that making or not making a shot, or basket, or goal, or home run constitutes the end of the world, I think that playing sports as a little kid gave me time with my daddy that I wouldn't trade for anything.

so here's to all the gold medal winners of parent-of-a-kid-who-plays-sports Olympics! you're always there, you lug the lawn chairs, and you have just enough orange slices at halftime.