Going for The Gold.....Remote

The Summer Olympics are here, and I have to admit that I've never been a huge fan.

I guess I'm more attracted to the Winter and not just because I have hockey in my veins. There's just something exhilarating about the risk of skiing and bobsledding that's always managed to grab my attention. And I'm still entertained with curling because one - I don't get it - and two -that one guy looks like a very quick handed version of a janitor every time.

Nonetheless, I didn't want to let my seasonal Olympic bias to affect my kids. If they want to watch people twirl on the parallel bars, or swim like dolphins in a swimming pool, well, who am I to interfere?

This past weekend had its share of competition, but not just in London. A fierce battle of wills took place in my living room. For the remote. In fact, it was so good, I started thinking about petitioning for Remote Control jousting as a new Olympic sport.

This particular disagreement had to do with the battle between a previously recorded Olympic event or the unmistakably live Yankees/Red Sox game on Saturday night. In my house, the greatest rivalry in sports usually wins. But on this night, an unexpected battle ensued.

You see, this was the day that my kids discovered something so earth shattering, so inspiring and athletically enthralling, that they wouldn't be denied. You guessed it.

Beach Volleyball.

Was this for real? Turn back to the Yankee game!

"No, Dad. I want to watch this one match."

Were they kidding? Recorded, tape delayed, beach volleyball? First of all, it's 2 on 2. So we're not talking about the ball hitting a series of hands here. It's only 4 people on the court. On the beach. This was an Olympic sport?

My kids couldn't turn away. But I wanted to. The Yankees had just tied the game on a Marc Texiera 2-run blast over the right field wall. This was Yankees-Red Sox. A game with 9 players....on the grass. We watched for a few minutes. And just as the game hit its crescendo......back to beach volleyball.

NBC raised the stakes by mentioning that the American tandem had never lost a match in almost 3 consecutive Olympic appearances. Very impressive. But again, this was 4 people playing on the beach. From my view, it could have been a pick-up game.

I lunged for the remote, but my daughter has become very adept at concealing it by using her body to shield off my approach. Sometimes her sister even sets a pick. Realizing that this was no use, I tried to use logic. I explained the history of the baseball rivalry, but that meant nothing to them. Then I took the live vs recorded earlier route and encouraged them to head to the computer to see who won. Who was I kidding? To them, this DVR, and tape delayed program was just as good as live. And besides, who do you think they wanted to emulate more? A bunch of ballplayers spitting between strikes or women on the beach wearing bathing suits and really funky protective goggles?

In the end, the Americans won. And so did the kids.

Field of Screams

I started playing baseball when I was 8 years old.

I'm not sure what originally attracted me to it, but I was certain it was something I couldn't live without. There was something beautiful and inexplicable about the sound that those old wood bats made when connecting perfectly with the ball. And better yet, how cool it was to slide into second just ahead of the throw when stretching a single into a double. And what kid could ever forget that feeling of being on the mound and striking out an opposing player on three consecutive pitches?(Don't worry, it didn't happen often).

But as good as all the memories were, there was still one that I wish I hadn't taken with me.

I'm not talking about the obvious like a season ending injury, an awful coach, or popping up with two outs and the bases loaded. This one trumped them all - -

Overzealous Parents.

They were always well represented on both sides, and they made sure their voices could be heard. Everyone was fair game. They yelled at the umpires, their Coach, the opposing Coach, and most importantly....their own children.

It was specifically their vicarious natures which forced them into a hypercritical mode. You just wanted to say, "Hey look, pal. You played baseball a long time, but those days are over. Now the next generation is picking up the mantle. So just sit back and keep your trap closed." Of course, the less than politically correct dialogue that actually swam through my head was much shorter and closer to "shut the F up."

So now that I have a daughter playing competitive softball, I'm prepared to keep my opinions to myself, especially when on the field. There's just one problem.

I can't.

Something just comes over me as soon as the ball is put into play. I yell where to throw the ball, or where a player should stand on the field. I scream about hitting the cut-off man (or woman), or holding onto the ball. And I'm not even the coach.

Have I now fallen into the same trap as the hoards of parents before me?

You're damn right. But it's not for the reasons you may think. I don't yearn to play girls softball, and I recognize that at 10 years old, this isn't exactly Triple-A ball. You see, the true essence of the problem is baseball itself.

Baseball plays more games than any other professional sport. It's the equaivalent of an NBA and an NHL season combined. So there's never been a shortage of exposure to the game. Also, between Little League and softball, I've been in hundreds of games myself over the course of a lifetime. After awhile, you've just seen everything. You've seen so much that you have insight into something before it even happens. And with that kind of knowledge, how could I keep it to myself? I'm compelled to share with the group.

My daughter doesn't want to hear it. Neither does her coach. So why do I continue to rant?

It's simple. I was an athlete. And athletes are born to compete. If you show up on a field, a rink, a court, or whatever, you're there for a single purpose. To win. It's in my DNA; programmed like a character in the Manchurian Candidate. There's the sound of bat hitting the ball, and my mouth just opens by itself.

You're here to win. If not, why would you play?

My daugther has found several other reasons. She has hot chocolate on the bench during the cold Saturdays of April. She gets to show off her new glove and cleats every season, and giggles with the other girls about who knows what as they stand around in the outfield.

She'd like to win. But if she doesn't, it's not an issue. There's always a playdate later that afternoon. She's just enjoying an afternoon in the sun with her friends. The game is secondary.

I wish it was for me. However, there is something positive to look forward to. My grandchildren won't be constantly critiqued by their Mother when they grow up.

I just can't say the same about their grandfather.