Life & Laughter - The View From the Sidelines

If there’s one thing that makes you question your life choices, it’s sitting at a child’s outdoor soccer game in April. 

Clutching Stanley mugs filled with coffee, whisky, or both, parents and grandparents sit on wobbly camp chairs, huddled under musty blankets while trying not to be too conspicuous about checking the time. 

The idea is sound: help kids understand the concepts of a sport and learn teamwork. In reality, it’s about which kid brought the best treats or if we’re going to catch pneumonia and die before the game ends.

Utah’s spring is a weather roulette that can have you freezing at 9 a.m. and sweltering by noon. The cold wind, constant trickle of rain and glacial temperatures give way to heat stroke and sunburn before halftime.

My four daughters played softball every spring for what felt like 75 consecutive years. Each year, we’d bundle up in coats, gloves, scarves and earmuffs to watch them play. We shoved handwarmers into pockets and told them to “Think warm thoughts.” 

It was often torture. Not only do you watch your child strikeout, but strikeout in 45-degree weather. They’d hold the bat with frozen hands, waiting for the impact to snap their fingers off at the knuckles. 

Now, my grandkids enjoy soccer, which is played no matter the weather, and everything is mud. The only thing running faster than my granddaughter is my nose. Except when it’s treat time, then the whole team finds a burst of adrenaline to snatch up granola bars and Capri Suns. Don’t even think about bringing oranges or bananas. Who are you? Someone who hates kids?

Each spring, hope wears shin guards and batting helmets. It’s a fresh start, a chance to learn skills and an opportunity for new coaches to lower their expectations. 

You can spot a new coach by their optimism. They come prepared with drills, practice schedules and intricate plays, but by the end of the season, they’re just happy to have players who can identify a soccer ball and run in the right direction. 

They also have to deal with parents. There’s always that person who believes their child is the next Lionel Messi or Aaron Judge. They memorize the rule book and counter every official’s call. “Blue! Were you the lookout on the Titanic?” or “Hey, Ref! Are we keeping you awake?”

They scream at their child to “Run!” for 45 minutes straight and call their 6-year-old over between innings to explain baseball defense. 

Yet, even in drizzly, cold weather, spring sports thrive. There’s just something about watching a child finally hit the ball off a tee or score their first goal. We see coaches kindly redirect a player’s attention from doing cartwheels to protecting third base. 

When your granddaughter makes a great pass, she looks to the sidelines to see if you saw it happen. You did. 

Although we complain about the mud, the temperature, the uncomfortable seating and wonder if the other team altered the birth certificate of their star player, there’s something inherently human about watching young people navigate sportsmanship.

It’s not about winning. It’s about showing up for the kids you love. You watch them fall on their faces, sometimes literally, and get back up. You watch them strike out, kick the ball in the wrong goal or drop an easy fly ball, and wince along with them.

If there’s one thing that makes you question your life choices, it shouldn’t be watching a child you love run past you with a big grin on their face. Even wrapped in quilts, chugging espresso, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.