Playing for Mom and Dad

10-22-90

It was a pretty good week for Cobber sports. The cross country teams took a weekend off to prepare for this week's MIAC Championships. The soccer teams hit the road for a weekend in Colorado. And the football team won a big game at home before a sparse but loyal crowd.

With students mostly away on mid-semester break, and a north wind blowing, the parents of players were prominent in the stands. The parents are there when no one else is.

As the game ended on Saturday, the parents of Cobber football players headed down to the field to take part in a cherished Concordia custom. The opposing players shook hands. Then most of our team just stayed on the field. The parents went out and visited with their sons on the field. There is no team meeting after the game, win or lose. Coach Christopherson says this is a time for families.

The Mom stands on our semi-sacred turf, knowing she belongs there, and says how well the Son played, no matter how bad he played. Then she gives him a pie or some cookies. The Dad congratulates the Son on the win and maybe a good play. Then Dad asks about a muffed assignment or a ball the Son dropped. Then they laugh and hug and talk about sisters and school and girlfriends and other family stuff.

Obviously not all the parents are there. But enough are there each week to make it a spectacle worthy of pause.

Affirmation of families has not exactly been a major theme of college sports in recent years.

Still, Concordia's affirmation of family values does not immunize our students from the traumas of coming of age and working out their ever-evolving relationship with their parent(s).

A parent's loyalty is often a hard thing for a child to understand. Sometimes it's too much. Sometimes it's not enough. And rarely does it precisely mesh with the gyrating expectations of a young athlete.

When a parent should stop living by the child-athlete's schedule is as hard to know as when the child is no longer a child.

The man-child and woman-child is often torn about a parent's attendance at games. "It's nice they're here," he or she thinks. "But I have a date. And I'd like to hang out with the team. But they came all this way.

Their support is so nice, a source of strength and security. But I hope they're not living out their dreams through me. Am I a status symbol for them? I don't think I'm playing for them. Am I? They missed my sister's recital to come to this game. I wonder how she feels..."

The conflicting thoughts of the young athlete about Mom and Dad at the game are never quite resolved. Until they stop coming. Or there are no more games. And, maybe, not even then.

The dynamics of "Parent vs Child" have always been the stuff of great literature. We can all relate to such stories. They are forever unfolding, until all the actors are dead.

The sporting world itself is full of such stories, almost cliches, like the little league moms, the parent molding the child to achieve greatness the parent never could, and the player who finds a father figure in the crusty but loving coach.

Cobber athletes, like all athletes, play out these personal dramas, each on their own. Athletes rarely play only for parents. But parents are often a part of why they play.

Some athletes play to prove they are grown. Other athletes quit to prove they are grown. Some athletes play to block out parental hurt. Others play to preserve a common channel of communication with parents.

Some athletes play to live out the dreams of their parents. Others quit because they want their own dreams.

Some athletes play to show up their Dads. Others play in hopes of being as good as Dad. Some athletes play because Mom never could. Others play because Mom believed they could.

Fortunately, Cobber parents, like most parents, remember how dumb they were when they were young. Most parents keep it all in pretty good perspective, even when their young athlete doesn't. The parent knows the child will grow up. The child forgets the parent already has.

I remember one hot August morning on the farm when I was 16. It was about 7:30. My brother and I were shuffling across the yard to our combines, our legs aching from two hours of pre-season football practice earlier that morning. My Dad noticed our hobbled status. With patience typical of a farmer at harvest time, he threatened us about our slow pace.

Using all the tact of a 16-year-old, I shot back that he should show more understanding for our athletic obligations and the burden that places on us. Dad thought about that for about a tenth of a second and then said we should quit football if that's the case.

The farm work comes first. (These weren't our exact words.) I then suggested to Dad that a particular friend of mine on the team would surely never have to listen to talk like that from HIS Dad. I also said something about his dumb wheat.

Dad just shook his head, told us to get to the field, and walked away.

Dad was always at our games, but I was sure our games were no big deal to him. My friend's Dad wasn't able to get to many of our games.

When I was 20, I remember enviously watching a couple of my college basketball teammates head out for a bite to eat after a home game. I couldn't join them. Mom and Dad had driven the 250 miles to see me play. It was time to go out with them. They hardly ever missed a game. I was sure Dad was taking our games way too seriously.

Years later, I learned from that particular high school friend how much it had hurt him to not have his Dad at our games. And I learned from those college teammates how much it hurt them to not have had a Dad at all.

These pages are maintained by Jerry Pyle pyle@cord.edu. These articles are copyrighted © and may not be published or reproduced without the express permission of Jerry Pyle.

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