The Tiger in My Basement

Meeting the Washington Capitals players reminded me of the first time I asked a professional athlete for an autograph.  My dad tended bar at Porter Street Station during the late '70s and early '80s, a club known for Disco Night Fridays.  Located a few blocks from Tiger Stadium in downtown Detroit, Porter Street was popular with Tiger players, who would sneak in the back door to avoid the crowds.


One afternoon while running errands, Dad and I stopped in.  "Come with me," he beckoned and we approached a table where two men were eating lunch.  "This is my daughter, Heather."  I sucked the room's oxygen into my lungs with a gasp.  It was pitcher Dave Rozema and right fielder Kirk Gibson!  "Can I have your autograph?" I squeaked, unable to exhale.  Amused by my embarrassment, Gibson and Rozema signed drink coasters.  I felt both victorious and idiotic.


I had been playing softball for close to 10 years.  Other than pitcher and first base, I could play any position, but my favorite was catcher because I had an enormous crush on Lance Parrish. 

Autographed poster of
Detroit Tigers Catcher Lance Parrish

I came close to pummeling a teammate when she grabbed the #13 jersey before I could.  Head and shoulders sagging over the loss of an intangible source of strength, I reached for the next shirt on the pile, #9.  My coach leaned in and remarked, "You know, that was Al Kaline's number."  Ha!  Did you hear that, Number Stealer?  I got a Hall-of-Famer!  I wore nine the remainder of my softball days.  Lance would understand.


In the end I got my man.  For my 13th birthday Dad gave me a framed autographed poster of Lance standing next to a Bengal Tiger, the words "Tigerrr Catcher" along the bottom.  My heart fluttered when I read the inscription.   He signed it To Heather, My very best wishes!


Decades later Lance resides in my basement laundry room because I don't know where to hang him.  And because my husband hates it.  Whenever I considered moving him along (the poster, not my husband) I would remember why I loved baseball.  Ernie Harwell on the radio.  George Kell drawling to Al Kaline on TV, "Eeewwww, look out, Al!" when a ball would sail foul.  The Boys of Summer.  Sparky Anderson.  The 1984 World Series.


Those were good years with great memories.  Lance, will you please pass the detergent?

Ugly Winners, Ugly Parents

They're easy to spot.  Against league rules, they coach from the sidelines.  On the pitch they excoriate young referees until they're afraid to blow the whistle.  At Little League games they overrule the umpire's calls.  The whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of their rotors is a dissonant background noise.

  

Helicopter parents at two recent sporting events prompted a discussion about sportsmanship with my children.  When my son's soccer team lost 11-0 to a highly skilled team, they were demoralized.  I felt compelled to explain how poorly this reflected on the other team's coach and parents.  Humiliating others demonstrates a lack of integrity.

On the diamond helicopter parents called their players safe at first then proceeded to call out an opposing player because he ran out of the base path.  "Those are the rules!" an HP grandparent shouted.  If you're a stickler for rules then how about abiding by league's guidelines for spectator behavior?

When parents expect their children to win at all cost, they imbue them with a sense of entitlement and lack of empathy.  It's outrageous not to give an eight year old a break when his opponents are ahead by more than six runs.

I'm not raising crybabies.  Losing fosters the desire to win and makes kids more resilient.  When their best effort isn't good enough they focus on what to do to improve.  Failure helps them appreciate success.  Losing is hard but doesn't have to be ugly. 

Helicopter parents will continue to be an unsavory part of my children's athletic life but, going forward, when my kids see them I want them to think, "When I grow up, I'll be better than that."


I dig teachable moments.