April 19, 2007

Forty weeks ago an OB technician determined that this Saturday was the date my wife would deliver our first child. When this information was imparted it seemed reasonable enough considering my understanding of the human gestation process was similar to that of making a hardboiled egg.

When the timer goes off, it's ready.

Now that we're hours away from that due date, the absurdity of pinpointing a box on the calendar is finally setting in. Predicting the exact day a baby decides to escape from its womb is like predicting the date Al Sharpton realizes he owes an apology in both Durham and Smithfield. For the sanity of the parents involved, the individuals who hand down these decisions should just give us a month-long window in which the baby could possibly drop.

I say sanity because I'm losing my mind as this day, seemingly pulled out of a hat, grows closer. I'm thinking of all the immediate issues I need to resolve, like having enough diapers (I'm told you can never have enough) and deciphering the car seat instructions.

And my lucidity is not helped by Brian Logue, the Director of Communications at US Lacrosse and a father of two, who takes great glee in saying, `Life as you know it is over,' followed by a slow, evil chuckle.

My thoughts are not limited to the weeks following the arrival of our bundle. I also find myself pondering the distant future, when -- God willing -- the child is five, 10, a teenager. Naturally, I try to envision what kind of parent I'll be and how I'll structure my child's upbringing.

Specifically, I wonder what kind of parent I'll be when my child first experiments with organized athletics. Will I quietly watch as my son or daughter learns the valuable lessons sport can teach our youth? Or will I be `That guy,' the red-faced twit screaming at coaches and officials because of a perceived slight to my child? Or perhaps somewhere in between?

As a high school lacrosse official, I see and hear a wide range of parents and take note of their actions during games. While observing these different personas I've created various labels to identify them. So far, I've cataloged six.

1. The Homer
This breed believes any type of verbal support for their child or child's team is a good thing, even if they look foolish. The Homer unfailingly questions an official's call if it is against the team they are supporting. It can be the most obvious foul or penalty of the day, but if it hinders their team, Homer will make a caustic comment. This species can be identified by its general misunderstanding of the rules, or the game itself. Homer is often accompanied by a Scream Queen, a mother who instinctively reacts to a hard hit or long pass with some kind of extended yelp.
Favorite phrase: "Call it both ways!"
Redeeming quality: Will often be the guy who has a cooler of sports drink or sandwiches for his team after the game. Rarely swears and aren't overly rude.
Will this be me?: I think every parent is a Homer in certain respects. Some just have a better understanding of the game than others. I wouldn't be a Homer in lacrosse, but a different sport holds the potential, I suppose.

2. Glory Dazer
This is the guy who enjoyed some notable athletic success -- or so he believes -- at some point in his youth, whether it was in lacrosse or not. The Glory Dazer is harder for the untrained eye to spot because there is a tendency to look at the wrong sideline. A large proportion of GDs end up as coaches, whether at the youth or interscholastic level. When not coaching, this group typically views athletics as a vehicle for a free college education, and tend to be ruthlessly critical of their offspring. This is especially disturbing on the youth level.
Favorite phrase: "Did you even play lacrosse?"
Redeeming quality: Due to some sort of subconscious need to be part of the action again, they'll be the first ones to chase down an errant ball.
Will this be me?: Well, considering the pinnacle of my athletic career was dominating the Bowdoin College assistant football and hockey coaches in squash about seven years ago, I would say this is unlikely.

3. Sarcasticator
Ironically enough, this is perhaps the most grating type of parent from my perspective. This guy knows just enough about the rules to be dangerous, and delivers his zingers with a wittiness that leaves a mark. One of Sarcasticator's trademarks is waiting for the 50-50, could-go-either-way calls (ward/hold, for example) before unleashing a well-crafted barb. If you've got one of these guys within earshot for the entire game it can be mentally draining.
Favorite phrase: None really. These guys are tough to pigeonhole.
Redeeming quality: Many of the other parental types will defer to Sarcasticator if he's good, and will assume the role of a laugh track. Plus, I can appreciate a good one-liner, even if it's at my expense.
Will this be me?: I'll confess to being a non-parental sub-species of the Sarcasticator in college and, like many of my collegiate indiscretions, I'm not proud. It will take some discipline not to devolve into this type.

4. The Tough Guy
Almost exclusively the parent of a boy, the Tough Guy is the lowest form of parent and the cause of all substantive problems between coaches or officials and parents. Pathetically enough, most of the individuals who try to play the Tough Guy role are overcompensating for some kind of shortcoming (intelligence?) and are mostly talk. The dangerous part of having a TG on the sideline is the tendency for them to prod their child into retaliatory blows.
Favorite phrase: "You better get control of this game before I have to."
Redeeming quality: None, but occasionally you'll get Tough Guys from opposing teams on the same sideline. They'll spend their time verbally circling each other like a pair of preening peacocks, effectively canceling each other out.
Will this be me?: Being the proud owner of a junior high school degree, I'd like to think I can navigate the rest of my life without the implied threat of physical force. Add in the fact I can't fight my way out of a wet paper bag and I don't see it happening.

5. The Absentee
It seems like the contemporary childrearing handbook mandates a parent hold their child's hand as they pass every one of life's obstacles, so the ghastly idea of letting a child learn a lesson on their own is tantamount to negligence. Heaven forbid a child partakes in an activity, even if just for 90 minutes, without a patriarchal safety net standing nearby. By now, you're probably asking yourself: did he just make up No. 5 as a way to proselytize about the absurd state of parenting these days? Of course not.
Favorite phrase: (crickets chirping)
Redeeming quality: Believe children have a steeper learning curve than a basset hound; leave a smaller ecological footprint.
Is this me?: Good question. Personally, I believe the gradual introduction of self-dependence is critical to the social development of a child. On the other hand, I like lacrosse and would probably watch it given the chance.

6. The Observer
This species is in the same class as the California condor and the Northern Idaho ground squirrel. Parents showing the ability to watch a game without inserting themselves in some fashion are the rarest of animals. This breed does not derive the basis of its existence from the athletic accomplishments of its offspring. They cling to the archaic notion that sport is a means of testing the physical being, and not a measure of one's soul.
Favorite phrase: "Good game, [insert child's name]"
Redeeming quality: Appear to have a solid grasp on where athletics ranks on the hierarchical list of positive influences on a child's development; don't litter their sentences with 'um' or 'like.'
Is this me?: Competition is the fundamental trait that makes this country as great as it is, and sports help hone this instinct. Alas, it does not mean there has to be a competition for who is the most obnoxious parent. I view the Observer paradigm as the brass ring, but honestly, I'll be tested to mirror the model.

As I wind up this column I've actually frightened myself. In this one small aspect of my impending child's life there are really this many variables?

They gave me 40 weeks. I need another 40 months.