On Being THAT Dad

Boys,

This past Saturday, sometime between the hours of 10am and 11:30, it hit me that I’m THAT dad. You know, the one you yells louder than anyone at their kid’s basketball game. I didn’t even realize I was that dad until your mom looks over at me with this, “you need to take it down six or seven notches” kind of look. In my defense, she was yelling too, but I think hers fit in more along the wavelength and decibel level of the rest of the parents, while mine could have drown out a jetliner engine.

When I was growing up, I played baseball with a kid named Jeremy Kemp. Jeremy’s dad, Harold Kemp (will never forget) was a lawyer — this doesn’t mean anything other than to present Harold as a serious individual. Harold always sat/stood right behind home plate and was always one of the louder parents cheering on the team. One game, Jeremy hit a home run and harold lept halfway up the 20-ft fence screaming, “THATS MY SONNNN!!!!” before eventually falling down from the fence and landing on his back. I don’t remember how old Harold was at the time, but knowing how my 38-year-old body feels now, I have to imagine falling on his back from even three or four feet would probably keep most of us down for a week. But, like a cartoon character, Harold bounced up like he’d hit a trampoline, and continued cheering with everyone else as Jeremy rounded the bases.

Now, I might be on an island here, but when I hear other parents yell at their kids’ games, it’s like when parents hear new parents with screaming babies on airplanes — there is an understanding and sympathy, and the sound almost becomes white noise. I think it just becomes part of the atmosphere and, at least at the game, almost becomes the soundtrack to the game itself. So, I hope that is the same thought other parents have as I’m yelling at the top of my lungs to you, Reagan, to dribble the ball down the court.

OK — moment of truth —

Reagan, by the time you find this blog and by the time you make it to this post, things might have changed. For all I know, something might have clicked for you and you might be the star point guard at whatever level you’re playing. You might even have dedicated yourself to a hobby, craft, or poured all your focus into something else and general athletics isn’t something your practice often. Maybe you’re a writer like me, or maybe you’re out there wheeling and dealing and conquering life in ways I never imagined you would… But now, February 7, 2024, lets just say that your general athleticness hasn’t developed yet.

And by the time you read this, I probably won’t care as much as I do now because you’re your own person and I will support whatever passions you discover in life. But, right now, I (and your mom for that matter — maybe even more than me) want so bad for you to be athletic and love sports and want to get out and play sports as much as you can. I just think its relatable to me — when I was a kid, I did like playing video games, but my #1 love was playing sports, watching sports, and devoting my summers to all the baseball and basketball that I could. Eventually, I found golf and began working that in as much as I could too.

I coached you in soccer last year, and my THAT GUY’ness didn’t really come out. On the year, I don’t think you had any shots on goal, which led to an obvious 0 goals scored on the year statline. With basketball, I care so much more for some reason. And all I want is for you to score one basket this year.

And look, its not like the referees at Powell Grace Church 5-6y basketball games are doing a whole lot to prevent it. Your friend Nash didn’t get anything more than a gentle reminder to dribble when he took the ball like a running back and took off along the same line a bee would take to get from point A to point B. He was at the foul line, then back across half court, then all the way to the other side of the court before the ball hit the ground, and the ref watched like, “I’ve seen worse.” So I feel like, its there for you to just take one possession, head toward the basket, and get one shot to go in.

This past game, we were in the 4th quarter and I saw the time running out. I just wanted to see you get a shot off, that I was yelling at you like you were a professional athlete at a 60,000 seat arena, “Reagan!! Take the ball to the basket and shoot!!! Don’t pass! Just shoot! REAGAN! SHOOT THE BALL, REAGAN!!!”

Again, pretty sure that every other parent on our sideline was like, “well, no sense in cheering now because apparently Reagan is going to get this one.” And to that, well, that’s on me, guys. But it worked, and you did get the shot off. You even hit the rim, but it deflected down as time ran out. But I was so happy and, honestly, I think that feeling right after you hit the shot when the relief settled in, is kind of the genesis of this post. I realized at that exact moment that I was being “THAT Dad.”

I had a lot of friends growing up, and other than my friend Zach Weiner’s dad, Richard (for obvious reasons), I don’t really remember many other kids’ dad’s names. But I will always remember Harold Kemp because he was the loudest, and it felt like that meant (at least at the time) that he cared the most. And the visual of “That’s my son!” as he suplexed himself off the fence will always live with me.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I can probably tone it down a bit, and I hope as we practice sports and you find your athleticness, I will be able to dial back the crazy just a little bit. But I want you to know that I’m only being That Dad because I care and I want the best for you. And I think we all can be glad that they don’t put fences inside of basketball courts because you can bet that I’ll be screaming “THATS MY SONNN!!!!” when you score your first basket.

Love,

Dad