On Sports: A Boy and His Father

Sometimes, the act or idea of play becomes something altogether different. Something negative, dark or even toxic. Youth sports have in many cases become such a thing. Certainly it was in the case of Sam Dubois. This story starts, as so many do, with a well intended youth sports organization, the Middletown Youth Recreation Association (“MYRA”).

MYRA has provided athletic leagues for young people of the area since its founding in 1962. Leagues where anybody can play, from beginners to experienced players. The baseball program is the biggest of the seven or so sports and activities MYRA offers, and was the first. It is not unusual for boys and girls to be involved with one or more MYRA programs from the age of four until they finish high school. But other kids come and go and there are at least a few newcomers each year. Some of the kids come out on their own, others are pressured into it by their parents. One such kid was Sam Dubois.

Sam was a third grader at Middletown East Elementary School when he joined the MYRA. He was a fantastic student, achieving straight A’s every year. But baseball did not come easy to him. He was much more comfortable in science class than on the ball field. Aside from his stellar grades, Sam was pretty ordinary, except for his unique appreciation of the little things. In science, in life, even in baseball.

The MYRA programs are parent volunteer led and it was in this capacity that I found myself coaching the Falcons. It was during the Falcon’s first practice of the new season that I came across young Sam Dubois. And his father. There was nothing particularly unique about either of them, but the dynamic between them was what caught my attention. While I couldn’t initially put my finger on what it was that made these too stick out, two things were clear: 1) Sam did not want to be there; and 2) Stan was a baseball dad of the highest order. And a particularly troubling one at that.

Sam was a quiet boy of mixed heritage. His dad American, his mom from the Philippines. Sam didn’t dislike sports, but was pushed to participate. Sam would rather have stayed home, reading and playing video games once his homework was done. But his Dad, Stan, wouldn’t hear of it. “Boys are meant to play sports” Stan could often be heard saying. That’s what Stan’s father had always said and that’s how it would be for Sam.

Sam didn’t demonstrate much athletic ability. In fact, he was as raw as they come. And more than that, he really didn’t want to be there, and it showed. Stan would come to every practice and pepper Sam with instruction after instruction from the bleachers. During batting practice, Stan could be heard shouting, “hit the ball Sam…hit the ball Sam…hit the ball Sam”. In those early days, Sam wouldn’t come close to hitting the ball, and Stan was only making it worse. Each time Stan would pepper Sam with another “hit the ball Sam”, Sam would wince, like a dog getting wacked on the nose with a newspaper after taking a shit on the carpet. Watching a baseball dad like Stan could be amusing, if it wasn’t so painful for Sam.

In the field, it was the same thing. “catch the ball Sam…catch the ball Sam…”. If Sam did catch the ball, which wasn’t often, Stan would move on to “throw the ball Sam…”. It was as if poor Sam was being directed by an invisible game controller Stan operated with his voice. By the time the games started, Stan was really fired up.

It was the first game and the Falcons were playing the Eagles. Sam led off the third inning and took three straight called strikes. Stan shook his head, looked at Sam as he was shuffling back to the third base dugout and said “nice television”. Stan was unique in this regard. Not only was he unrelenting in the way he harangued his son, but it was as if he had given advance thought to how he would do so each time.

Sam really wanted to be doing other things. He was about average height for his age, a little bit thin, his skin color a light shade of olive, much closer to his mom’s than his dad’s. Stan Dubois was a peculiar man. He was about six feet tall, with a large round belly. He had dark thick hair which was always a little bit disheveled and a dark color which sometimes looked brown, sometimes black. This made it look unnatural. I always thought it was a wig but I was never able to get close enough or to see him at just the right angle to be able to tell for sure.

In fact, I later learned that Stan didn’t play much ball when he was a kid and he didn’t look like he did much of anything active in recent years. Stan seemed to make a point of wearing athletic clothes, usually donning shorts, a dry fit t-shirt and running shoes. He acknowledged this to me one day as we watched the boys take batting practice. “I really love baseball, always have” he said. He went on to explain that his father didn’t have to push him into it, he loved the game. But no matter how much he practiced, he just could never seem to perform up to his father’s expectations. “He told me I would never amount to anything on the ball field” Stan shared one rainy afternoon. “That crushed me, but he was right”. Stan then looked into the distance, the way one does when they’re in deep reflection. It seemed as if Stan was about to say something else, but he didn’t.

I gained more insight about Stan, and myself, by watching how he interacted with his son. Although I played a lot of baseball kid and have been a lifelong fan of the game, my involvement as a coach only ran for three years. Until entering the world of baseball dads, I actually didn’t know very much about the game. Oh sure, I knew most of the rules and I could play a little. But I didn’t really understand how all the different facets of the game worked. The game within the game. Things like where to place your hands when you swung, footwork at second on a double play, calling the game from the bench, how to manage a lineup, etc. In a strange and most unexpected way, Stan helped me learn the game, and to become a better dad / coach.

I believe Stan really wanted to help Sam, but his instruction consisted of barking directions as he sat on his back side on the aluminum bleachers. Occasionally Stan would throw and catch a bit with Sam at home. While this would start out as a positive gesture, it would soon end up in the same place. As long as Sam caught the ball or threw accurately, everything was fine. If he didn’t, it was a problem. It was like watching a modern day version of Chinese water torture. Drip, drip, drip. Stan was so relentless that Sam began wincing every pitch and every swing, even before Stan would say anything.

You may ask, why didn’t the coaches or any of the other parents tell Stan to just shut up? In fact, this did happen, on more than one occasion. And it wasn’t just the other parents, the kids would sometimes chime in, with regard to Stan and other parents who engage in similar (or even worse) behavior. There was another kid, Tommy Perkins, who was repeatedly harassed by his father. Nothing too serious, but it was consistent. We all knew it was coming, every at bat. “Take him deep Tommy”, “This pitcher is afraid of you Tommy”, “You got this Tommy”. Tommy would eventually crack, step out of the box, turn towards his father’s usual spot in the bleachers and shout at the top of his lungs “Would you shut the fuck up!”. As you could imagine, this was quite awkward, especially for Tommy’s father. He would quiet down and not say anything else for the rest of the game. Stan was a different matter. When someone called him out, in a public or more subtle way, he would go through this strange series of facial expressions and body language, ranging from shame, embarrassment, rage and ambivalence. It was uncomfortable to watch, like a gymnast or figure skater going through a routine with an extraordinarily high degree of difficulty. But Stan would only quiet down for a few minutes, then it would all ramp up again. Many of us wondered if Stan was even more abusive at home. Unfortunately, there are a lot of baseball dads, and they practice their craft in many different ways. I often think about what role I and the other parents play in these types of situations. Are we enablers? Do we share at least part of the responsibility? While the answer is undoubtedly yes on both accounts, more often than not, this type of situation is triggered by the senior having suffered through a similar situation when he was the junior. And while I am encouraged to see more youth organizations (sports and otherwise) take a more active approach to this type of situation, we can and must do better.

Sam would stick around in the MYRA baseball program for three years in total. As the kids got older, some would embrace the sport, others would find other endeavors they wished to devote more time to. Sam was in the latter category, opting to spend more time exploring his first love, science. Sam would go on to great things in science, and would even find his passion for sports as a better than average distance running in high school and college. But I will always remember those early days in the MYRA baseball program and wonder how that shaped Sam’s life. I can say for certain that it had a profound impact on my own.