On
the news this morning they were talking about how parents have been banned from
children’s school football matches. And, you know what? I’m not surprised. When James used to play football (not at
school but at the local club) I was often appalled, nay disgusted, at the
behaviour of parents on the touchline.
These were children of…what?
Seven? Eight? And parents were
bawling and screaming; yelling at their own kids to be more aggressive;
taunting other kids when they lost the ball or missed a goal; bawling out the
ref for ‘lousy decisions.’
It was
revolting. It wasn’t supporting; it was mean…like
bear baiting.
And it’s not just me being a wussy woman who doesn't understand
sport - Adrian was horrified too. In fact, both
of us were mightily relieved when James decided football wasn’t for him and he
took himself off to play rugby instead.
Not
saying, of course, that rugby parents are all saints but there is usually a bit
more of a sense of ‘fair play’. People still yell and jump around and get overexcited. But generally you clap
and nod (albeit with a pursed lip) when there’s an amazing run or an awesome
tackle from the opposing side.
The other day at school I watched my boy taken down in a quite
spectacular fashion (which will have hurt his pride, as he’s usually the one
who does the taking down) and muttered ‘Oh bloody good tackle’.
The woman walking past stopped and smiled.
‘That’s my son,’ she said proudly.
‘And that’s mine, underneath him, eating mud,’
I said with a smile.
‘Oh god, I’m sorry,’
she said.
‘Nah,’ I demurred. ‘That was one awesome tackle.’
She smiled again. ‘Well, he’ll be
pleased. Last time he played your side,
he broke his arm, so it’s always going to be a bit of a grudge match.’
And we chatted a bit and watched the game,
and applauded good work on both sides.
But
then, as Adrian often says, I don’t *get* sport. Sure I support my son’s side; sure I want
them to win but nah, I don’t get the screaming and yelling. Apart from anything
else, the boys simply can’t hear. I went
through a phase of trying to make an effort, to enter in the spirit of it. Taking my hint from the people around me, I’d
yell out, randomly, ‘Legs! LEGS!’ or ‘Heave!’ or ‘Ruck over!’ But James said, pityingly, after the match.
‘Mum, just stop it, huh? We can’t hear
you. We don’t need your advice. And, frankly, you look a bit nuts when you jump
around.’
Fair
enough.
So
really, parents. Stop it already. Get a grip. Think of your children and put them before your pride. I think the main problem is that parents
(particularly the men) live vicariously through their children. Listening to
Adrian talk, you’d think he had had an illustrious career as an All Black. He verges on the obsessive when it comes to
rugby, picking apart the team, each match, the opposition. It’s great, to a point – it shows he’s
interested, that he cares. But it can become too much and sometimes I see James' head go down. ‘Sometimes I just want
to play, to enjoy playing,’ he says with a resigned sigh.
And
that’s the bottom line, isn’t it? Yes,
sport is competitive but it’s also supposed to be fun, to be enjoyable. When
parents push and yell and degrade, that’s not fun any more. Is it?
