Spring is finally here. The trees are blooming — ask my allergies – people are strolling around the block after dinner and the weatherman is no longer predicting a sudden freeze.

But the best sign of spring is seeing youngsters out in the ball fields, practicing tee-ball, baseball, softball and soccer.

I’m not someone who likes sports. I was always the last one chosen for the team. Not even love could save me – my high school boyfriend didn’t pick me for his team when he was the coach. His reasoning was sound – I was the worst one.

In college, the only way I passed a tennis class was because I made 100 on the written test. I was the only person in the entire class who never won a point. You read that right – I never earned one point, much less won a match.

So it’s a little odd that I love sports, especially spring sports like baseball and softball. Because I’m the mom of boys who enjoyed sports, we were at the baseball field a good bit of the time during their growing up years.

It was a stretch at first, learning the game, not getting upset at other parents and especially watching my sons strike out, miss a foul ball or not make the throw from the outfield to the infield.

It’s the process that’s fulfilling in sports. Watching your child go from swinging and missing at a baseball to finally connecting is a thrill for the child and for the parent.

Seeing them learn the difference between offense and defense on the basketball court was like watching them learn the difference between salt and sugar.

We watched our boys work, and it was like manna from heaven to see that hard work pay off. But there were the darker moments – the missed tackle, an unfair coach, a surprise foul.

There were the injuries as well. Our middle son broke his collarbone when a kid slid into him while he was protecting second base.

There’s the burn out – school plus homework plus practice is tough for a young person to juggle. When they don’t get picked for the team, that’s a difficult conversation to have on the way home from tryouts.

Teaching them to roll with the punches, to try harder the next time and to shake it off is all part of being the parent of a young athlete.

We’ve had our share of bad coaches – men and women who were only wearing a cap because they wanted their son to be the pitcher or they wanted their daughter to be the goalie.

In all our years of being bleacher parents, only one young player made it to the minor leagues.

I wish these coaches had realized the real lessons were instilling a sense of teamwork and the realization that practice is vital for success.

Our boys have had some extraordinary coaches who taught the basics – how to catch and throw a ball and guard an opponent. More importantly, they taught them how to win and how to lose. To this day, I’m grateful for their guidance and support.

Our young grandson had such a soccer coach last year. He saw a spark in Jason and encouraged, praised, corrected and liked our grandson.

We have a picture of Coach Josh and Jason on display. Whenever I see that photo, I think about all the men and women who’ll step up this year and, without realizing it, will be the brightest spot in that child’s life for many years.

Load up the lawn chairs and the Gatorade.

It’s go time.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.