I've changed my mind about youth sports leagues (or Reflection on "Lord of the Flies")

{photo credit: nyac.org}

On Wednesday nights we often drive past the community sports fields. Owen Ray stares in wonder at the bright lights of the stadium and the games of soccer and football going on. As he approaches 6, he's increasingly interested in "ball games" (though he can't tell you which ball goes with which sport). My thoughts on organized sports? Pshh.  Who has time for that?  Not only do you have to dedicate precious weekend time to attending games, but you have to carve out time in your schedule to attend practice time during the week, as well!  Plus, they cost money.  And did I mention they cost money? I had always hoped that by the time my children were interested in playing sports, they would be able to run to our community playground around the corner and join in a game with the neighbor kids.  It's free; it allows them to build friendships with the children who live near them; they would be able to participate whenever the time permitted.  It sounds perfect, right?  If only other parents thought this through, they would realize that neighborhood pick-up games were far superior to any "league" they could sign up for.

 Two days ago the sun was shining, so the kids and I made the very short trek to our neighborhood playground.  7 or 8 boys varying in age from 1st grade to 5th grade were playing a game of tackle football.  From far away it looked like they were having so much fun.  "This is what I'm talking about!" I thought. Ray looked on with extreme curiosity.  You could see he was interested in what they were doing, but not interested enough to try to join them.  I recognized many of these boys.  What I did not recognize were the words coming out of their mouth.  Everything was derisive.  Everything was foul.  Miss a badly thrown ball little 6 year old?  "You're a loser."  Tackle someone? "Get off me $*#&@" It appeared that none of these boys could meet each others standards.  From their perspective, everything everyone else did was wrong and stupid and sorry, and no one was immune.  What's more, the group was purposefully excluding one neighborhood boy who had resigned himself to watch from the sidelines since he wasn't wanted on the playing field. This 9 year old immediately introduced himself to me then began playing with my 3 and 5 year old.

When I got home I called Trey almost in tears.  I felt so bad for that little boy who wasn't "good enough" to join in the game.  I relayed their harsh words to one another and how negative the entire game had been.  Trey reminded me that I should feel bad for all the boys.  After all, there were no winners involved; everyone was, in fact, a loser.  They were victims of the negative climate they, themselves, had created.  Suddenly my hopes of having Owen Ray join in the fun next year seemed a bit naive. My inquisitive, timid, and sometimes painfully shy child was not going to thrive in this environment.  He wouldn't be learning how to be tough; he'd learn how to be a jerk. And he's not going to turn the tide as if all this neighborhood game needs is a quirky 5 year old with a bright smile to right the ship.  This game probably needs an adult.  Maybe a leader to set the tone and establish some boundaries and guidelines.  What's that called?  Oh, right.  A Coach.  Because I've read Lord of the Flies, and I know what children devolve into when left to themselves.  Murderers. Obviously.

All this to say, I find myself looking up registration info for community recreation teams for the first time ever.  When are soccer sign-ups?  How much does it cost to play T-ball?  How many weekly practices are there for basketball?  I have no idea when or even if Owen Ray will be joining a sports team.  I just know that right now, I have changed my mind about other parents needing to think through the advantages of neighborhood pick-up games.  Because maybe they already have.  Or maybe they just already knew.  I mean, we have a stellar neighborhood.  Seriously.  I have the best neighbors ever.  I can't imagine what this looks like in other neighborhoods.