Confessions of a Sports Mom

MONTCLAIR, N.J. —  Sometimes it’s a scent that takes me back -- cut grass on a dewy field, brownies in the oven, a powder-fresh uniform miraculously revived from the dead.

Other times it’s the weather. A sudden hail and I flash back to that soccer game at Bridgewater. Searing heat and I wonder how we survived Annapolis, Md., in July at the all-star lacrosse tournament.

It can even be the sight of someone else’s child, wearing impossibly tiny cleats, pleading for ice cream after a game, goofing off as a hapless coach tries to corral some team onto a field.

I think, how did I get here from there? Where did the time go?

I look in the mirror and reality looks back: I am a sports mom.

It’s not like I haven’t done other things. For nearly 23 years, I’ve worked for the Associated Press. I’ve buried one dear husband and married another. I’ve been single, married, a mother, a widow, a single mom, a second wife, a stepmother.

But as my daughter graduates from high school, I’m haunted by memories.

Fifteen years on the sidelines, three kids, nearly a dozen sports. A life I just drifted into is now an indelible part of me.

*

My first team as coach was the Orange Bullets, 15 feisty girls aged 6 and 7, my daughter included.

Two practices a week, a game on Saturday. Working on the overnight shift so I could hold practices at 4 p.m., I was jet-lagged, barely able to move. They could not stop. At one point they decided to do cartwheels until they were dizzy, collapsing with laughter in the grass.

We won every game -- by a lot. The next year, Montclair’s soccer-dad mafia held a draft for players and broke up the franchise.

Only years later did I realize I’d unwittingly collected the town’s best athletes. In high school the girls diversified, playing many sports. Four became recruited college athletes; one has played all over the world as a member of the U.S. national team for younger athletes.

What I remember most is their pigtails flapping as they ran.

*

Journalists are notoriously bad with math, but it’s time to face the sheer number of hours I’ve spent on youth sports.

All my kids -- two girls, one boy -- had 10 years of skiing and five of sailing, because those were my sports.

My stepdaughter, Renata, also had three years of soccer, two of softball and 10 of ballet.

My stepson, Andrew, was a ball guy: that meant nine years of soccer, eight of baseball and six each of lacrosse, golf and basketball.

The youngest, my daughter Kelly, blitzed through 11 years of soccer, 10 of horseback riding, three of lacrosse, two of softball, one of gymnastics and a random ice hockey camp.

Oh yes, and they all could swim across the St. Lawrence River from age 11 on, a 1.3-mile trek. But that was just to keep up with their grandmother, a long-distance swimmer.

*

The horse show world: Well, we didn’t go bankrupt, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

I bought a young horse, my daughter turned her into a winner, and we mingled for three years with the likes of Mike Bloomberg and Bruce Springsteen. At the Hampton Classic in 2004, I wore a linen skirt and a straw hat, and my daughter came in the top 10 in all of her junior hunter events.

But the warning signs were flashing red. The horse that won junior hunters cost $1.3 million. In her section, my daughter was the only rider who went to public school, the only one with just one horse, the only one who didn’t spend the winter on the Palm Beach show circuit.

Can you say “out of our league”? It was time to flee the sport.

*

Sports parents: Love ‘em or hate ‘em, you cannot ignore their impact.

Faced with out-of-control parents, our youth soccer league required that one person from each team attend a SAGE (Set A Good Example) meeting. I had to listen to a mind-numbing lecture about how we were all scarring our children for life by yelling at them in games.

For months afterward, we parents mocked the SAGE rules. No verbs (“Good job!” was OK, “Get the damn ball!” was not); must sit down (no pacing the sidelines); no berating the referees (even when they are blind); no immediate postgame critiques (“If you had made that direct kick ... “).

Five years later, we had a change of heart. Montclair folks were noticeably more mellow than others on the high school sidelines. One silly lecture altered our DNA forever.

*

Then there are coaches.

Parent coaches: How well do you know your neighbor? My husband had to eject his softball assistant after the man shoved his 12-year-old daughter into a chain link fence. The men never spoke again.

High school coaches: Maybe they should not pressure vulnerable teens to skip SAT review classes and go to practice instead. And teens should not lie about it.

College coaches: For a real-life kick in the gut, watch 10 college lacrosse coaches interrogate your 16-year-old, knowing her future is on the line.

Where did you play? What are your stats? Head coaches barked the questions, assistants took notes.

“And what is your time in the mile?” the Cornell coach demanded.

Bless her heart, Kelly did not flinch. “7:40 -- but I was wearing goalie pads.”

A pause. Everyone broke into laughter. Maybe your time in the mile is not so important if you are a goalie.

*

Once your child reaches high school, you are a full member of the sports tribe. Some basic tenets:

* In Montclair, a Garrison Keillor “above average” suburb, all teams are aiming for the state playoffs.

* Your SUV will be packed with enough food, first aid and extra sports equipment to cover every contingency a travel team of 16 can come up with at a field one hour from home.

* Younger children will be dragged from field to field as their older siblings compete. Upon reaching middle school, they will either become uber-athletes or head straight to the goth crowd.

* Most important, high school parents are expected to torpedo their careers to “be there.”

I tried to solve that dilemma by changing my work schedule to fit afternoon games. One would think that an editor who wants to work weekends or overnights for months would be a popular figure in the newsroom. Nah, it just annoys people. And taking the day off? That just guarantees that games will be rained out and rescheduled.

*

You don’t realize how insular you are until you run smack into another universe -- say, one run by the prom tribe.

The second round of the girls’ state lacrosse championship happened to land on the same day as the Montclair junior prom. I called a mother up to warn her that Kelly would be late to the pre-prom party.

“What does that do to her hair appointment?” she asked. “Can’t she just skip this one game?”

There was a universe of witty responses to that. Instead, I choked: “No, she has to be there.”

Back at the field, fellow sports moms hooted, begging me to tell the story again.

“Skip the game? She’s the goalie!”

“It’s the STATE TOURNAMENT!”

“She’s trying to get recruited for college!”

Yes, yes, it’s the failure-to-communicate thing. The prom tribe could not understand the pressures my daughter faced; I could not understand their obsession with hair.

The girls played hard in a driving rain and won by 10 goals. The final play of the day was shower, blow-dry and off to the limo, all within 25 minutes.

“What does that do to her hair appointment?” became our mantra for the season.

*

I don’t know how this story ends, but the broad outlines have been filled in.

After playing soccer since she was 6, Kelly, on a whim, tried out for the lacrosse team as a sophomore, becoming the varsity goalie. As a junior, she landed on a top club team and entered the college recruiting rat-race. She now plans to be a force in Division III.

I am not blind to irony. I nearly went bankrupt trying to keep up with the horse crowd; I went on the overnight shift for five-odd years to coach youth soccer.

But how does my daughter get into college? With a sport I had never seen before.

*

So this Mother’s Day, it’s time for me to hang up my metaphorical cleats.

Time to stop whipping up brownies and Rice Krispie treats by the ton. Time to stop selling team sweatshirts and umbrellas. Time to stop scheduling my life around games and tournaments, sports camps and visits to colleges.

My life is coming back to me, and I don’t know if I am ready for it.

I am crying like a baby -- and it’s not even the last home game.