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Richard Stevens: Faces I'll remember are the smallest ones

By Richard Stevens
Saturday, February 23, 2008

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The memory of a small boy crying is still the one.

It's the one that sticks as much as Jim Valvano's NCAA dance in The Pit, as much as Petie Gibson's Pit bomb to beat NMSU, as much as Clayton Shields' 75-footer that broke Neil McCarthy's Aggie heart, as much as walking into Caesar's Palace sandwiched between 6-foot-6 Michael Cooper, 6-5 Marvin Johnson, 6-10 Wil Smiley and 6-8 Willie Howard.

The kid was a no-name, although I'm sure he had one.

He wasn't Bill Gentry, Magic Johnson, Jim Hulsman, Ralph Tasker, Linda Estes, Tiger Woods, Tow Diehm, Nancy Lopez, Larry Bird, Norm Ellenberger, Tommy Lasorda, David Williams, Abby Garchek, Johnny Tapia, Michael Jordan, Rosie Jones, Joe Montana, Terance Mathis, Stoney Case, Rocky Long, Mike Piazza, Gary Colson, Mike Sheppard or any of the big names I have spoken with in 35 years of journalism.

He was just a scruffy kid standing in a Little League dugout, wearing baggy pants and looking up past the brim of his cap at a screaming father. A father who had no business coaching and probably not much of a clue at how to be a dad.

The kid's mistake was a little one. He struck out. He let down the dad/coach thing hulking in front of him.

I remember his tears as vividly as I remember Valvano's.

I remember his pained face as clearly as I remember McCarthy's mug after Shields' prayer was answered at the buzzer in Las Cruces.

My touchstone in sports has never been the games that produce ever-lasting names and ever-lasting egos.

It's been Little League, high school, youth soccer, YAFL.

Kids.

It's been the sand-lot warriors who play the game for free and fun, and leave you memories that don't come with names. They come with faces. They come with smiles.

You would hope that after 35 years of covering sports there would be some wisdom to impart and probably there is. This message is one that roots back to that Little Leaguer's tears. It's a message for the grown-ups.

And it will surely fall on deaf ears once again.

They say that the only thing wrong with youth sports is the grown-ups, and there is truth in that just like there is falsehood.

Most of the grown-ups involved are a good part. They are well-intended, passionate, supportive and there.

Being there is huge.

And then there are the other grown-ups. The ones who fall into The Parent Trap. The ones who fall into The Coach Trap.

The kid that cried on that long-ago sunny day was doomed. His grown-up was victim to both traps. It was a dad too caught up in expectations. It was a coach too caught up in winning.

The trap for coaches is honoring too much the "W." The win. These are the coaches who forget the importance of the smile, the gift of participation. They kill the love. They stomp the passion.

But bad coaches come and go. Parents usually stick around.

For parents, the trap is wanting too much to see Little Johnny or Sweet Susie as the star, the shortstop, the point guard, the quarterback, the hero giving back reflected glory.

It's a sad thing that so many parents never see the true value of athletics, childhood, education or moments.

Athletics, for most, is a passing fancy, as it should be. It's not really that important in the long run and doesn't really produce too many Larry Birds, Joe Montanas, Rosie Joneses.

I remember when my son, Trevor, then 12, reached into his pocket of dreams and came out with two big goals. He wanted to play baseball for the New York Yankees. He wanted to attend Stanford University.

Sure, kid.

But you don't kill kids' dreams. You join in with a blend of gung-ho support and gentle realism. You tell them what it takes and you push or guide them in directions that might give those dreams a chance.

You pull and you push, but you try to make it feel like you are walking right beside them.

And their joy doesn't have to come through a game. If they like to dance, let Õem dance. If it's music, buy them a horn. Find out what carries the light of their smile into their eyes and enjoy the gift that comes from seeing it.

You teach them reaching is important. You dream along with them and, if you are wise, you soak in every smile, every laugh, every moment. You build memories.

You hit them extra grounders. You explain work ethic. You throw a book in front of them. In my case, you wish they came from a better gene pool so they might grasp what to reach at.

In the back of your mind, you don't put much stock in the Yankees thing. You make your front porch the college thing and you push that part really, really hard.

You let your kids play their games for all the right (fun) reasons, knowing that they'll also benefit from the other stuff: discipline, work ethic, friendships, sacrifice, commitment, responsibility, etc. You know the list. They are good things in sports you can carry through life.

I can say this with all honesty. The parts I remember most about my kids - Trevor's now 19, Kelsey 14 - on any sporting field is their smiles and how they so often managed to find the sunshine in it all.

Trevor, I think, has given up on the Yankees thing. Bad knees. Bad genes. Too busy with wrestling and books at Stanford.

Kelsey is still reaching for stuff. She has a great reach. She has a beautiful smile. She knows about books. She wants to pitch softball for Arizona. Maybe Stanford.

Why not?

I'll help her as much as I can, as long as I can, and hope she overcomes those bad genes. I'll try to help her find the sunshine, too, or at least not block the rays. I'll throw some more books her way, push a little, love a lot.

I'll do this, in part, because I remember the crying kid with no name.

Stevens is The Tribune's deputy sports editor. He has been writing about kids and sports for the newspaper for 35 years.