Who cares about winning?
Paddy lewis
WINNING is a bit of an abstract construct these days. When I was young, my parents didn’t mind whether I won or lost so long as I had attempted to do my best. Nowadays, standing on the sideline at my own children’s sports, it seems winning or losing doesn’t really matter to the vast bulk of the lumpenglitteratiat, so long as Mummy or Daddy can tick the box that says ‘Junior had a run around this week’.
I had (or the players had) the misfortune of looking after my youngest nipper’s under-7 rugby team last week. They play rippa rugby. I hate rippa rugby – as do most of the kids, who constantly ask “when are we allowed to tackle them?”
Anyway, I had one kid who didn’t have any desire to be in a position to take a pass, but wanted to score tries every time he got the ball. Given this would be difficult as he refused to chase the runners and/or take passes, he threw his six year old toys out and started belting his teammates and told them on an individual basis to **** off.
Being coach, ref, and nose wiper that day, I chose to studiously ignore it. Obviously being an attention seeker, he started bashing his own players and telling them to combine sex and travel as above.I told him to stop and he told me to you-know-what.
At this point I called a halt to the game and wandered over to tell his mother he needed to have a time out. She looked suitably gobsmacked that her little angel could do this.
But rather than storm on to the field, grab him, and drag him off ( as my dear wife would) she stood lumpenglitterati-horrorstruck with the Edvard Munch My-Son-Would-Never-Say-That look upon her face.
The kids (as six year olds do) were getting restless, so I gave up on her and wandered back to the team, whereupon Mr Six said to me, “you told my mother. **** you. I’m gonna kill you.”
Here’s where my mother and father would have said something that finished with a smack on the arse. But the 1970s was so much more convenient than today. And I didn’t get to deliver a Dirty Harry-type retort such as “You better make sure you kill me, because if you don’t I’ll damn sure kill you.”
Nevertheless, tears and much wailing ensued. Luckily the parents realize they have an issue to deal with and have removed him from the team until he can behave himself.
My point is I have become much more conscious of how other parents want to be their children’s “best mates”. This extends to sport, where the parents support stupidity such as the NZRFU’s dumb idea to record one-sided match results to a limit of 35 points.
I despair for this attitude. My parents were entirely supportive, whether I got a deserved pounding at boxing, played in a team that got pumped by 17 tries to nil, or finished last in a foot race. They wouldn’t say I’d done well if I hadn’t.
The only time I recall my parents getting stuck into me was when I had gone into an event underdone and overconfident and it had cost them a fair whack. Now, unfortunately, it appears sport for sport’s sake is for most parents a chance to tick the ‘Activity’ box in their childrens’ lives.
The kids aren’t learning anything but mediocrity. If we had a few more parents focused on winning, perhaps we might avoid the fast approaching dearth of talent as a result.
I had (or the players had) the misfortune of looking after my youngest nipper’s under-7 rugby team last week. They play rippa rugby. I hate rippa rugby – as do most of the kids, who constantly ask “when are we allowed to tackle them?”
Anyway, I had one kid who didn’t have any desire to be in a position to take a pass, but wanted to score tries every time he got the ball. Given this would be difficult as he refused to chase the runners and/or take passes, he threw his six year old toys out and started belting his teammates and told them on an individual basis to **** off.
Being coach, ref, and nose wiper that day, I chose to studiously ignore it. Obviously being an attention seeker, he started bashing his own players and telling them to combine sex and travel as above.I told him to stop and he told me to you-know-what.
At this point I called a halt to the game and wandered over to tell his mother he needed to have a time out. She looked suitably gobsmacked that her little angel could do this.
But rather than storm on to the field, grab him, and drag him off ( as my dear wife would) she stood lumpenglitterati-horrorstruck with the Edvard Munch My-Son-Would-Never-Say-That look upon her face.
The kids (as six year olds do) were getting restless, so I gave up on her and wandered back to the team, whereupon Mr Six said to me, “you told my mother. **** you. I’m gonna kill you.”
Here’s where my mother and father would have said something that finished with a smack on the arse. But the 1970s was so much more convenient than today. And I didn’t get to deliver a Dirty Harry-type retort such as “You better make sure you kill me, because if you don’t I’ll damn sure kill you.”
Nevertheless, tears and much wailing ensued. Luckily the parents realize they have an issue to deal with and have removed him from the team until he can behave himself.
My point is I have become much more conscious of how other parents want to be their children’s “best mates”. This extends to sport, where the parents support stupidity such as the NZRFU’s dumb idea to record one-sided match results to a limit of 35 points.
I despair for this attitude. My parents were entirely supportive, whether I got a deserved pounding at boxing, played in a team that got pumped by 17 tries to nil, or finished last in a foot race. They wouldn’t say I’d done well if I hadn’t.
The only time I recall my parents getting stuck into me was when I had gone into an event underdone and overconfident and it had cost them a fair whack. Now, unfortunately, it appears sport for sport’s sake is for most parents a chance to tick the ‘Activity’ box in their childrens’ lives.
The kids aren’t learning anything but mediocrity. If we had a few more parents focused on winning, perhaps we might avoid the fast approaching dearth of talent as a result.
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