Youth Sports: A Grumpy Dad’s Search for the Middle Ground
Why tossing a dad and ditching ninth-place medals might save kids’ games.
When I was 15 or 16, I umpired Little League baseball. Twelve bucks a game — big money for a teenager who thought a Slurpee and a gas station burrito was living the high life. I played the game, I loved the game, and figured it’d be a way to give back.
Training? A single two-hour course and a quiz a toddler could’ve passed blindfolded. Before the season, we had a meeting with the veteran umps — guys who’d been around since Abner Doubleday was scribbling in the margins of his notebook. The head guy was Larry, at least 80 years old and carrying himself like he invented baseball and then had to explain it to God. Someone asked, “What do we do if a coach gets out of line?”
Larry’s answer, burned into my memory: “Warn him once. Odds are he’s a dad. No kid wants to watch their dad get in trouble. But you’re not there to get yelled at. It’s about the kids. It will always be about the kids. If he crosses the line, toss him. If he won’t leave, his team forfeits.”
Larry didn’t mess around.
The Education of a Teenage Ump
It’s my first game. I’m behind the plate (extra dollar — hazard pay). My partner, Mel, looked and sounded like Cleveland from Family Guy. I was predictably terrible. Strike zone? Inconsistent. Timing? Messy. Coaches? Surprisingly tolerant. One dad behind the backstop? Not so much.
After he loudly declared that I was “full of…excrement,” I told him to watch his language. His comeback: “How about you watch the game, it might help.” I froze. By the time I thought of a reply, the moment was gone. Between innings I vented to Mel, who asked, “Why didn’t you toss him? You gave him a warning.” I had no answer.
Fast forward a week. Same team, same dad, new partner — Larry himself. See, word had gotten back to Larry about Asshole Dad and when he saw my name on the sheet for a game with that same team, he decided to slot in. Larry is already there when I arrive. His greeting to me, “don’t let anyone give you a hard time today. Let’s have a fun game.” Know who was also there? Asshold Dad. Before first pitch, he hollers out to his kid on the mound and yells, “You got a crappy ump today, Blake. No matter how bad he is, stay focused.”
This time I walked up and told him, “One warning. Any more and you’re gone.” Not smooth, but rehearsed. Dad snapped back with, “What are you, twelve? Show some respect to someone who knows the game.”
Larry appeared like Mr. Smith from the Matrix, except instead of a villain he was a guardian angel with a scorecard and a scowl. “You’re not welcome at this game anymore,” he said calmly. “You can wait in the parking lot or come back when it’s over. Your choice.”
The guy muttered something about “pathetic old man.” Larry didn’t blink. “Fine. Then your team forfeits. Do you want to explain to your son why, or should I?”
Asshole Dad stomped off. Game went on, kids played, nobody got cursed at. Thank goodness for Larry. I didn’t have the stones at 16 to eject a grown man, but the lesson stuck: adults acting like jerks ruin kids’ games faster than bad calls ever will.
The Pendulum Swings
Fast forward to last weekend. My 9-year-old skates in a figure skating competition. She’s been at it for two years, getting better every week. I swear she improved between the warm-up and her actual routine. She skated clean, no falls, confident. Objectively (yes, I’m her dad, but still) she was the best on the ice.
The other kids? Four fell. One bled. Still, the five skaters from the host rink finished one through five. My daughter finished sixth out of eight.
And here’s the kicker: every kid got the exact same medal. Identical hardware, identical ribbon. The only difference was the placement on the results sheet. “I didn’t know they made ninth place ribbons, Greg.”
Was I mad? Not really. I expected it. The judges weren’t going to let the home team get skunked, and handing everyone the same trinket makes sure nobody cries too loud. But this can’t be the answer. My daughter, who we’ll call Grace because… well, that’s her name, was crestfallen. “It’s the best I ever skated, dad. I landed both of my omelets.” (Yes, that’s a real move)
“I know, pumpkin. The judges don’t always get it right.” I left the “rotten, cheating, biased” qualifiers unsaid.
Where’s the Middle Ground?
Will the kids who lose be sad?
Of course they will. And good. Kids need to learn how to process disappointment. How to reconcile defeat. One day, way too quickly for any parent to be truly ready for, those kids will be teenagers. And then adults.
And I think we all know some adults who’ve clearly never been told “no.” People who’ve never been held accountable for poor performance, never learned to take feedback, never had to claw back from losing. Never, and this is huge, had to rebound from victimhood at the hands of unfairness. They’re infuriating to work with — the human equivalent of watered-down well whiskey at a $2 blackjack table at some off-the-Strip Vegas dump.
Every kid who competes today will eventually compete for something that actually matters: limited college spots, jobs with hundreds of applicants, the affection of someone who has options. How will they respond when it doesn’t go their way? Hopefully not like Asshole Dad. Hopefully not like Steve, the guy who made my workday hell this week. And hopefully, when the stakes are higher, their fate will be decided by a fair arbiter.
My Proposal
My best idea? Open bars at every youth sporting event. If parents had bourbon in their hands, they’d be too busy ordering another round to scream about a ball being “two inches outside.”
Since that’s never going to fly, I’ll settle for this: stop berating refs, stop bubble-wrapping kids. Let the games mean something, win or lose.
Because right now, youth sports in America feels like it’s circling the drain. And not even a well-engineered one — I’m talking a rusty dive bar sink, caked with the remnants of flat beer, bad well tequila, and the amalgam of swill accumulated in the barkeep’s rubber catch mat.
Alas, it will take somebody smarter than me to figure it out. So with that I digress. I’ve got a bottle of Lagavulin 16 set aside for an occasion just like today. What is that, you may ask? Friday, friends. Friday.
Torsten / 120 Proof Ball
Proof that the internet was a mistake.
