This explains a lot. Jeff Pearlman, sports writer and author, really seems like he has an ax to grind against sports in general and youth sports in particular. So his brother, who he describes as "painfully shy, socially awkward and owner of few friends" to start with, takes up youth soccer at the behest of his parents trying to find a solution to the problems he is already dealing with and it's the sport and the youth coach that "f__king destroyed him"? Are you serious?
WOW!!
How does that saying go, "Hurt people hurt people"? There seems to be a whole lot of hurtin' going on here, so what's a person to do? Go piss in the Wheaties of every person that is succeeding in the arena that failed you and yours, I guess. JMO.
How does that saying go, "Hurt people hurt people"? There seems to be a whole lot of hurtin' going on here, so what's a person to do? Go piss in the Wheaties of every person that is succeeding in the arena that failed you and yours, I guess. JMO.
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Why I Don't Want My Kids to Play Team Sports
Team sports may build character, but do they also create narcissists, bullies and one-dimensional kids? Jeff Pearlman has made a living as a sportswriter--but he do...
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Way back in 1982, my brother signed up to play youth soccer.
It was my parents' idea. David was 12 at the time—painfully shy, socially awkward, owner of few friends. Mom and Dad thought joining a team might prove beneficial. So they enlisted him in the Mahopac Sports Association with hopes that the fresh air and the green grass and running and kicking and laughing would instill confidence and happiness.
I don't recall the name of David's team, but it featured red uniforms and was coached by a local dad who worked as a fireman. He was a loud, boisterous guy, not unlike many of the fathers I see alongside fields most weekends in my hometown of New Rochelle, N.Y.
Before every game, the coach would have all his players form a circle, put their hands inside and yell out, "Team!" Then, without fail, my brother walked to the bench, sat down and remained there—completely ignored—for three quarters. Immediately before the final period began, the coach would point to David and begrudgingly insert him at right fullback for the requisite minimum amount all kids must play. He made it painfully clear to the others that my brother was the weakest of weak links; that he was useless as a soccer player.
More than three decades removed, I detest that coach. I know his name, know his whereabouts, and often fantasize about running into him in a supermarket or coffee shop.
Me: "You coached youth soccer back in the day, right?"
Him: "Sure did."
Me: "Do you remember the score of the third game of the 1982 season?"
Him: "What?"
Me: "How about the fifth game?"
Him: "Um …"
Me: "The first game? The second?"
Him: "Huh?"
Me: "Right. Because in the name of winning a bunch of meaningless 12-year-old soccer games, you f—ing destroyed my older brother …"
That experience—and those memories—didn't merely slice up David. They sliced me up, too, in a most unusual way for a guy who not only loves athletics, but who has made a career out of chronicling them.
Namely, thanks in large part to Mahopac and soccer and 1982, I do not want my children playing organized team sports.
I know … I know. Team sports build character. Team sports teach youngsters how to win and lose. Team sports are all about camaraderie and togetherness and unity and …
No.
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