An AI-generated image for illustration purpose.

Mary McNamara, Tribune News Service

A while back, I sat in the aggressive discomfort of the bleachers at my youngest daughter’s high school basketball game and vibrated with rage. After nearly 20 years of watching my children play youth sports, I thought I had tamed the “What game are you looking at, ref?” beast that lurks within us all, but no. There it was, roaring to life as my daughter, for reasons clear only to the men with whistles, fouled out in the third quarter. I didn’t yell or suggest that the officials were in cahoots with the other team, as some people to whom I am married did. But I did exacerbate my TMJ. Of course my daughter commits fouls. Everyone commits fouls. But most of these calls appeared ridiculous.

Though not, perhaps, as ridiculous as me. There I sat, a full-grown woman, aware that I was watching the next-to-last season of a decade’s worth of high school sports, and ruining it by quietly coming out of my skin over what I considered a few bad calls. So instead of grinding my teeth into nubs, I finally embraced my ref rage and tried to explore its contours.

What was I furious about, really? That we had paid $24 to watch our daughter sit on the bench? That she comes out of games with bruises all over her midsection and four-inch scratch marks down her arms, but at 5’10” seems to be regularly penalised for playing while tall? That the refs did appear quite chummy with the other team’s coach?

No, I was angry because two other adults had been granted temporary but quite specific control over my daughter’s life and I did not think they were administering it fairly. And there was not a damn thing I could do about it.

As I fast approach the final year of my last round of hands-on parenting, I realised that this is the best, and the worst, part about being the parent of a young athlete: We get a taste of what the future holds long before our direct participation in our child’s life necessarily comes to an end. Years before we send them into a world where parents have little or no role — with college professors, bosses, colleagues, landlords, whatever — youth athletics prepare us for a time when our job, as parents, is to sit, watch and cheer (or grind our teeth) when appropriate. American parents get a lot of flak, often justifiably, for their over-involvement in their children’s lives. But even the non-helicopters among us run a certain amount of interference; it’s part of the job. Up to the middle school years, we might engage in conversations with other parents when young friendships turn into feuds; from pre-K to high school, if a child appears to be struggling academically or socially, we meet with teachers, counselors and administrators. (Some parents, God help them, attempt to do this throughout college.)

When it comes to sports, however — well, let’s just say I have learned the hard way that once your child is 8 or 9, no coach has any interest in your thoughts on their abilities or the position, number of minutes or role those abilities should accord them. And your child will not appreciate your efforts either. In my house, the simple phrase “Maybe I should just talk to your coach” has long guaranteed improved study habits / tone of voice / chore completion. Honestly, they would, and will, do anything to prevent this disaster from occurring. As for the refs, unless you actually know the people wielding the whistles, the only appropriate interaction is a friendly nod, silence and a word of thanks at the end of the game.

Sports can teach kids many things — the necessity of practice and commitment, the importance of teamwork, the ability to take direction and remain composed under pressure. Parents, on the other hand, mainly learn to let go and suck it up. Which are difficult but very useful lessons. If you genuinely think a coach is terrible, you can take your kid off the team. But by its very nature, being coached is often an uncomfortable, and occasionally infuriating and/or devastating, process.

 Which you, as a parent, are experiencing secondhand. Most likely you will be forced, by your own child if not common sense, into an active course of doing nothing.