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was raised in a pretty competitive fam-
ily We took to heart the words of vet-
eran tennis great Martina Navratilova,
who once observed "Whoever said
'It's not whether you win or lose that
counts' probably lost." I'm not proud
of the fact that, growing up, I had no qualms
about wanting to annihilate my great-grand-
mother at gin rummy. Especially since she
could barely see her cards.
Once parenthood arrived, my cutthroat
attitude was slowly modified. When you're
playing board games like Candy Land you
realize there's not a great deal of competi-
tive satisfaction to be found in getting your
4-year-old stuck in Molasses Swamp while
your gingerbread pawn makes a triumphant
turn for the Candy Castle finish. Nor is it
really necessary to taunt your daughter with
"You'd better step it up a notch" the next
time she invites you for a game of Rugrats
Uno.
On the athletic front, I recall staring
across a pingpong table at my 7-year-old
son, trying to convince myself there wouldn't
be much satisfaction in walloping somebody
half my size, especially one who'd picked up
a paddle for the first time about 11 minutes
earlier.
I do recall when my eldest son became
involved in youth sports. The focus empha-
sized participation over competition. No
winners. No losers. No score. This wasn't
Knute Rockne and "Win one for the
30 • JULY
2006 • JNPLATINUM
Gipper" but more "Just go and play, you little
nippers."
Unfortunately, it took a little time for me
to come to terms with this approach.
I remember him playing T-ball, with me
serving as coach. I envisioned our first game
as the highlight of my post-high school
athletic life. I felt the competition, the fire-
in-the-belly passion, a virtual intellectual
chess game amongst some of the finest T-
ball managers ever to drag a burlap bag of
old balls, bats and tees to a dugout. Okay, I
know, I needed to get a life.
I soon did as I finally recognized the
dimensions of how outrageous I'd become
and put things in perspective. My son could
comfortably head off to our first organized
athletic game together with a sane dad in
tow. "Organized" is a loosely used term since
a T-ball game exhibits about as much order
as a pack of hyperactive hyenas who'd over-
done it on the pre-game Mountain Dew.
The game provided continued perspec-
tive, as it's hard to test your managerial
skills when you're more concerned with
imparting the crucial wisdom that one's
glove is not an object to be punted whenev-
er the mood strikes; there're no extra runs
awarded for how far you can throw your
bat after hitting the ball; the concept is to
pick up the ball if it comes toward you and
not kick it back toward home plate; and the
definition of outfield is not "a place to lay
down and pop the heads off dandelions."
That inaugural game allowed me to gain
a clear appreciation of what youth sports are
all about and for whom they are meant. The
real joy isn't found in the wins and losses
but in the smiles and joy that are generated
by just playing the game, along with the
improvement of the players and having them
enjoy the sport for many years to come. Of
course a real good post-game snack doesn't
hurt either.
From time to time, I do think back to my
time as that ridiculously crazed coach who'd
spent countless hours debating the monu-
mental decision of whether little Sammie
should follow Bridgett in the batting lineup.
If my newly found competitive philosophy
had arrived a little earlier in life, I may have
even let great-grandma win a rummy hand
from time to time. Heck, I'd probably have
even refrained from doing my victory dance
while waving my winning cards at her.
But nobody beats me at the Connect Four
game without a battle. I do have my com-
petitive standards.
Bob Schwartz is a syndicated humor
writer based in Huntington Woods. His
essays have appeared in more than 150
publications. His newest book is Would
Somebody Please Send Me to My Room!
(Glenbridge Publishing Ltd). He can be
reached at bob@schwartzhumor.com and
schwartzhumor. com .