Sports parents

The last three months of covering collegiate sports, especially basketball, have brought out a unique blend of emotions in this writer. For one, I saw school sports from the perspective of the people who have probably been giving it the biggest boost throughout history: the parents.

Whenever there were NCAA or UAAP games to cover, those who screamed the loudest (and often shouted the most cutting remarks to the referees) were the parents, whose passions understandably run very high. Understandably so, they’ve invested the most, from driving their children to practice, buying them their supplies and the never-ending store of expensive athletic shoes that seem to need replacing every few months, to feeding these starving mammoths after every practice or game. (And, debunking the theory that athletes don’t feel like eating much after a loss, I’ve discovered that some players actually eat more after a defeat. Parents have to pay for that, too.)

In years of covering sports, it has been a delight to see some of my favorite players’ offspring now follow the gargantuan footsteps of their fathers. Former PBA Most Valuable Player freddie Hubalde’s three sons now represne their schools in the UAAP and NCAA, two-time PABL MVP Sonny Cabatu’s boys are now De La Salle Green Archers, and many other second-generation players are building their own reputations in college and the Philippine Basketball League.

In past sports events I have organized, I have also met a lot of sports parents, who initially would question me about the organization and officiating of tournaments I was involved in, at times quite violently. but, in time, we have also become good friends. And once your children reach collegiate level, there is a little bit of relief, because you feel like your job of guiding them, salving their egos and worrying about them getting hurt physically or emotionally, is almost over.

I’ve also been reflecting about this matter because, in the last few months, I have officially become a sports parent. (Or is that "stage father?")

I’ve always been involved in sports, primarily because of what I termed "factory defects" I inherited. Asthma, migraine, scoliosis and flat feet all plagued me as a child, and my only recourse was to hit the pool, football field or basketball court to correct all these anatomical deficiencies. I also instilled the same reverence for sport in my children, who are now probably better athletes than I am. My youngest son, Daniel, 10, has been a sport climber for two years, and has shown a frightening drive to excel. he refuses to quit, and it is inspiring, even when I cradle him in my arms when he nearly collapses from exhaustion and frustration.

My older son, Vincent, has been exploring the frontiers of basketball and swimming, but has set his eyes on baseball, and played his first official Little League game two weeks ago. And I thought I had everything well in hand.

I have conditioned myself through the years to be absolutely neutral in my coverage of sport. I even joke that I only cheer in the quiet of my home, with the curtains drawn, and that nobody knows who my favorite teams or players are. My emotions have always been in check.

Well, not when my son is playing.

His first game was nerve-wracking for me, more so that I had brought a video camera (hey, it is my line of work). I don’t know who was more tense. And, as the game progressed, I found myself going through a whole range of feelings that I had submerged through the years. I went through the whole gamut of my own frustrations at giving up my basketball career, lonely nights of walking home feeling unsupported in my passion for sports, and every ache and pain from bruised ribs, black eyes, dead toenails, fractures and sprains from dabbling in soccer, basketball, karate, volleyball and tennis. And I was scared that my son would go through all of these.

I also found myself questioning umpires, listening for snide remarks from other parents, and trying to shield Vincent from the harsh realities of sports. He was out there, on his own, unprotected save for his own sunny disposition, to face the malice, misfortune, and hostility of being daring. But at the end of it all, I was exhausted, he was fulfilled, and he was practically was consoling me. I had to laugh.

So I am now officially a sports parent. And, once again, I have a deeper respect for athletes, and their parents. How does one cope with the fear that your child, instead of being strengthened, is scarred for life by the slings and arrows of criticism or inadvertent failure that sport — and life — hurls unexpectedly?

I better start asking around for some good tranquilizers.

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