THAT Dad

Though it’s still winter, I know spring is around the corner. I know this not because the calendar is changing and the days are getting incrementally longer. No, I know spring will soon be here because my kids’ spring sports workouts, tryouts, and practices are in full swing. I confess, I love watching my kids play. The hard work, pushing their bodies to be stronger and faster, the intensity that comes across their faces — it’s a joy. I look forward to warm afternoons overlooking the baseball diamond and cool evenings in the soccer bleachers. Some days our sideline will stand yelling with joy, and other times we’ll hang our heads and groan. This is part of sports. There’s something else that’s part of sports: “THAT” dad. I could easily describe this person as “THAT” mom — but I’m a dad, so …

“THAT” dad is a spectrum that runs from those 40-somethings sitting behind the backstop drinking their Bloody Marys at the 8 a.m. Little League game (this is not hyperbole — I was one of those twelve-year-olds on the field) to the more mild and socially acceptable dad who is “passionate” about his kid. I have to say, I’ve never been concerned about becoming the “Bloody Mary” version, but could I, the logical, rational, yes, intense, but controlled Penny, become the mild THAT dad?

When I played, I wished THAT dad would be quiet and enjoy the game. I wasn’t going to be like them. I was going to be the dad who enjoyed the game, supported my kid, and moved on when the game was over. That’s what I aspired to be. After all, I’m a pastor, and I know there are more important things in the world than a youth sporting event. I’ve read the stats and know that the likelihood of any of these kids playing in college is slim, and making it to the professional ranks is a pipe dream. Did you know that less than 0.1% of high school baseball players will make it to the Major Leagues? Knowing this, I can sit back, relax, enjoy my kids having fun, and roll my eyes at THAT dad.

Until I became him.

Let me be clear, I’m not talking the Bloody Mary version but the “passionate” one. My blood pressure has risen, my heart has raced, my face has gone red, and I’ve mumbled (sometimes louder than mumbling) words of criticism about coaches and refs. Let me help us all for a moment — at youth sports, the coaches are often, not always, volunteers who signed up because no one else had, and the refs probably haven’t spent enough time learning the rules. So, go to the game assuming they won’t be as good as you wished they were. Even knowing that, I still get frustrated and annoyed. I go from smiling and lighthearted before the game to intense and blood-boiling during it. Only to return to my previous self once the game is over (or two hours later, depending on the outcome).

I have to ask, why does youth sports transform otherwise normal and sane adults into people their children don’t want to associate with? When I’m at my most charitable, I would say this comes from loving one’s child. Every caring parent desires to see their child succeed and find joy in what they love. And so, when you sense that they’ve been ill-treated, be it from the ref or coach (remember: low expectations), it’s easy to want to defend your kid with every ounce of your being. “That’s my child! Don’t you see what I see?”

Please understand, I feel like I have an accurate understanding of my kids’ abilities and talents. I know that in any given room, they’re probably not the smartest, fastest, the best on the ball, or the strongest. Yet, I see their beauty and goodness, and when that’s maligned, ignored, or passed over — I hate it.

But what if those noble desires, born out of love, get twisted? What if care for your child gets misaligned and you end up acting in ways that you swore you never would? What if, like Dorian Gray despising the portrait of himself, we look at ourselves in those moments and see something we hate? We see THAT dad.

If I look deeper at my charitable reading, I know that these actions come from a belief that how my child performs reflects on who I am. Before I was a pastor, a mom at the church I attended told me that when her daughter acted up during the service, made noise, or constantly dropped things on the hard floor, she felt everyone was staring at her. No one had an opinion of her parenting when her child was obedient and quiet, but when she acted, you know, like a child, then she assumed everyone thought she was a bad mom. She knew this wasn’t true and that no one, at least almost no one, thought what she feared, but she felt it, nonetheless. Her worth was tied up with her child’s performance.

When she confessed this to me, I thought, “That’s crazy! Your kid acting like that doesn’t mean you’re a bad mom any more than the docile child means his mom is a good one. How could she believe that?” Yet I’m convinced that the mild version of THAT dad comes in part from believing what that mom believed — who I am is based on how my child behaves or performs. Friends, that is not true.

The other thing that’s occurring with THAT dad is a desire to advocate for our kids. Maybe they are unfairly treated. Maybe they’re not the coach’s favorite and are forgotten. Maybe the referee mistakes their intensity for unsportsmanlike behavior. When we think our children are being mistreated, every parent wants to defend and advocate for them. But what if part of maturing is allowing my child to experience the world with all its unfairness? It’s not like adulthood will be free from unjust treatment. So, what if learning to deal with a biased coach or a poor referee is helping them to deal with a boss who is intimidated by their abilities or a co-worker who misreads their intentions? Don’t hear what I’m not saying. Of course, there are times when we need to advocate for our child. But maybe, as they grow (and as I grow), my child needs me to speak less and let them speak for themselves more.

The adult models I had as a kid didn’t do any self-reflection. They simply poured another drink, sat behind the backstop, and continued with their loud, slurring words. Of course, that is a response, just not a good one. A better approach is to remember that our identity is not based on who our children are or what they do. Yes, I’m forever tied to them — and I’m so thankful I am! — but they’re their own person. Who I am isn’t determined by what they do on the mound, on the soccer pitch, or if they play that note on the flute. And, more importantly, that’s not the totality of who they are either. We assign identity markers to our children: athlete, intelligent, dependable, strong, etc. But that’s not the whole of who they are. What they need from me is to know they’re beloved regardless of those markers. Whether they get the hit, put it in the upper ninety, or get the A, most important is that they rest in knowing they’re those for whom Jesus gave his life. THAT is who they are.

As significant as the game, test, or performance might feel, let us remember, it’s one game, one grade, one concert. Will we remember what got our heart racing fifteen years from now? My goodness, I hope not. Thus, perspective is in order. What my kids need, more than the cheers and the “correcting” of referees or coaches, are hugs, encouragement, and reminders that, regardless of what happened in those 90–120 minutes, they are loved. Loved because they’re my child. But more than that, they’re loved because they belong to the Father. They’re those Jesus died for. That’s what they need from me.

THAT dad is the dad I’d be happy to be.

John ‘Penny’ Pennylegion is the senior pastor of Christ the King Presbyterian Church in Roanoke, VA.