The Prologue for Nothing Ruins Youth Sports Like Adults

History Repeats Itself

21 seconds.

That’s all that stood between Tom Anthony and his team’s first victory over Fairview South’s sixth grade boys basketball team.

Coach Anthony had been trying to defeat Fairview South for three years. From fourth to sixth grade, they were the only team he hadn’t beaten. They were a grade school dynasty. During each of the prior two years, they had the best record in the league and had won the championship. His Dixon Elementary School team had always come in second.

This year was going to be different. Coach Anthony had a plan, and he was committed. He had even gone so far as to scout Fairview South prior to the big game—something he had never done before. (After all, this was just grade school basketball. Who would remember all this 40 years later...?)

Fairview South’s keys to victory were Bill Doering, Jimmy Kotsonis, Mike Carnell, and Mike Gissibl. They would play each one of them separately in the first through third quarters (with two of them in the same quarter), and then they would all play together in the fourth quarter, making them a pretty formidable fourth quarter team.

The grade school league only went from fourth to sixth grade. The next year, we’d all play together at Burleigh Junior High School, so this was my dad’s last chance to beat them. It was a tough game, and with just 21 seconds left to play, we were up 41-40, and we had the ball.

Throughout the game, one of our player’s parents had been pretty tough on the referees, as he sometimes was. There was a questionable call just before we inbounded the ball with 21 seconds left, and this time he had pushed the referees too far. Just after we inbounded the ball, the referee turned around and gave Mr. Berlinski a technical foul.

This took the ball from our hands and gave it to Fairview South for two uncontested free throws. The first one went in, and now it was tied 41-41. Then they made the second one, and they took the lead. We were suddenly down 41-42. Plus, they then got the ball back.

They inbounded the ball, worked it around, and with six seconds left, made a two-point shot to put them up by three. Down 41-44, we had six seconds to make up three points.

In a span of 15 seconds, we went from one point up and a possession to three points down with six seconds to play.

We rushed the ball down, hoping to quickly score so we could foul one of them, put them to the free throw line, and hope for a miss and another quick score. But it wasn’t to be. We couldn’t make the shot and we lost the game 41-44.

It was heartbreaking. Even though we were all only in sixth grade, we had a goal, we had a plan, and we had worked hard to get the win. But one adult in the stands who didn’t put in any of the work and wasn’t part of our team arguably cost us the game.

My dad would find out later that the referee wasn’t actually allowed to call a technical on us for a parent’s behavior. He was only allowed to warn the parent or make him leave the gym. We should not have been penalized. But it was too late. The game was lost, and we’d never know how it would have ended if it were left to the kids to play it out.

* * *

If you’ve ever had a child on a youth sports team, chances are you’ve dealt with a parent or child who put themselves ahead of the team, to the detriment of everyone involved. Maybe they thought their kid was the best or most important person on the team. Or they thought the coach wasn’t qualified or focused enough on winning. Maybe they were just mad because their kid was treated like everyone else.

Ever since adults decided to monetize youth sports, it’s been difficult to say if the kids are having a better or worse experience. It used to be that kids would get together, self-organize, play games, and resolve any disputes on their own. They learned how to work together and solve their own issues. There were no parents or coaches necessary.

Now we’re paying coaches and leagues thousands of dollars. And if you fall behind or can’t afford it, you just can’t play. Plus, thanks to the pressure some parents put on the coaches and referees, there’s a shortage of both. It’s just not worth the risk to their personal or professional reputations to do all the work necessary for little or no money or appreciation.

One or two parents, if not corralled early, can single-handedly ruin a coach, a team, and an entire program for an entire community.

This is one such story.

This book is the true story of just how far opportunistic, selfish, emotional, and sociopathic parents were willing to go to destroy a man’s livelihood and an entire girl’s high school basketball program, just because their kids weren’t given preferential treatment.

As Thomas Sowell is quoted as saying, “When people get used to preferential treatment, equal treatment seems like discrimination."

The world is full of these stories, but this one is a little different. Few make it to this level of insanity. The dynamics include favoritism, discrimination, lies, deceit, manipulation of children, retaliation, bullying, privilege, and a school district driven by fear, unable to stand up for anyone or do the right thing. There are more plot twists and turns than any youth sports story I’ve heard before. And it’s all true. I know because I lived it, and, as the assistant coach, I kept meticulous documentation throughout the entire journey.

To truly appreciate and understand the dynamics requires some background, setup, and introduction to the main players. But if you can make it past that, I promise you this story will serve as a master class on just how bad it can be when a few parents with no perspective are allowed to destroy a program for an entire community of kids.

Nothing ruins youth sports like adults.

Chapter One of Nothing Ruins Youth Sports Like Adults

The Last Generation

The children of the 1970s and early 80s were the last generation of Americans to grow up without organized youth sports.

We did not have American Athletic Union (AAU) memberships, U.S. Youth Soccer (USYS), paid coaches, expensive uniforms, traveling the country for tournaments, parents as their children’s chauffeurs, an active pursuit of college sports scholarships, sport specialization, lost family weekends, week-long sleep-away sports camps, select sports, and adults trying to make a living as youth coaches. We had our backyards, our playgrounds, our streets, our schools, and each other.

In the ‘70s, summertime meant waking up, getting dressed, eating breakfast, and heading out to play with friends. Depending on where we lived, the last words we heard before we left the house were, “Be home before dinner,” “Get home before the streetlights go on,” or “You know the bus schedule, be on the last bus if you don’t wanna walk.”

In the Midwest, where I grew up, there weren’t many fences, and all the back yards butted up against each other, so we had what seemed like football fields worth of combined spaces to play whatever games we dreamed up. (A recent return visit as an adult revealed it wasn’t even half as big as I remembered.) Depending on the numbers and equipment we had that day, we would play football, baseball, basketball, frisbee, soccer, tag, pickle, 500, or any game we could make up.

It was not uncommon to play hybrid games that borrowed from the rules of several games to make one free-for-all game. Somewhere in there, I think we probably invented Ultimate Frisbee, though we referred to it as frisbee football and allowed people to run with the disc. Tag had what seemed like dozens of variations. Sometimes we had team tag. Sometimes we played capture the flag. We even had a game we thought we made up, statue maker, where the statue maker spun you around and when you let go, you had to end up in some statue-like position.

I remember a friend of mine had some apple trees on his lot, and one day when we were sitting in his front yard, we thought it would be a great idea to have what was essentially a snowball fight with the apples on the ground. It ended shortly after it began when I led my friend, who was running from my right to my left, perfectly on a throw that nailed him right in the temple.

While these situations weren’t frequent, they happened enough that we all learned a thing or two about crisis management and first aid. We knew what we could solve ourselves, and we knew when we needed to bring in someone’s mom, dad, sister, or brother. (We usually tried brothers and sisters first… less chance of getting in trouble.) These situations were also useful in learning the power of the apology—which was just as often used as an insurance policy against getting in trouble as it was because you really felt badly.

When nighttime came, we’d play until we couldn’t see anymore. Then we’d transition to jailbreak or kick-the-can. Hide and seek was especially difficult at night, so we’d only play that when we all had special permission to be out later, or if we were all sleeping over at someone’s house.

Whether it was day or night, everyone was welcome to participate. Boys. Girls. Kids who were new to the neighborhood. Kids from other neighborhoods. Older kids. Younger kids. Cousins. Visiting family. Great athletes. Poor athletes. No one cared. Whoever was around was welcome to join us. And no matter who you knew or where you were from, we all learned to take turns.

We didn’t need tryouts. We just counted heads, divided up, and made teams. Sometimes we picked teams, but we all understood that some are better than others, and you don’t just get picked first for showing up.

Participating didn’t cost anyone anything either, except perhaps the cost of new equipment as we used up, broke, or lost the old equipment. But even then, we were resourceful and creative in our replacements until someone was able to get new and proper equipment.

We didn’t have uniforms. We just relied on our ability to remember who was on our team. Every so often, you’d throw the ball to someone you thought was on your team. But they would just throw it back, erase the play, and start again.

Without parents present, it was up to us to resolve our own disputes. None of us knew all the rules to any one sport, and we were often making up new rules on the fly, so we all had to learn some diplomacy and problem solving so we could move the game on. When there was an argument, no pressure was greater than the rest of the group sitting there and staring at the two arguing, applying the proper pressure to get it resolved so we could all play again.

Through these situations, we learned how to express ourselves to each other. We learned how to be honest with each other and how best to navigate the needs, demands, and wishes of everyone in the group. We learned how to negotiate and compromise without the need for our parents to step in and argue on our behalf.

Sure, sometimes there was some fisticuffs, and sometimes someone ended up going home in tears, or just literally taking their ball and going home. But we all learned the tools necessary to get the games rolling again. And we learned when to apply them. We knew who would be the right person to head over and convince someone who left in tears that we really wanted them back. We also learned who responded best to the challenge of merciless teasing. (I’m pretty sure we felt like we invented the phrase, “What is ya, yella?”)

Regardless of the score, we all learned to have a thick skin because the teasing and trash talk was relentless. If you struck out, missed a shot, whiffed on a soccer kick, or dropped an easy fly ball, someone was going to let you know about it. In the heat of competition, we would use every advantage available to us, including mind games. If we could get under your skin, you could count on everyone trying. We didn’t just learn how to take it. We learned how to dish it out.

As a result of all this outdoor play, we were all also healthy. Back then, we didn’t think of it as exercise, but we got plenty of it. Some of those sessions would be non-stop and last for hours. On the roughest or hottest days, we all had the willow tree in my backyard to give us the shade we craved.

Perhaps the most important lesson, though, was that when the games were all over, we all walked away friends and headed over to someone’s house to celebrate the victors and make fun of the losers. When I talk about this now, many express concerns about being made fun of, and why we would think that was alright. But those who grew up with it knew all too well that it was when they weren’t making fun of you that you had to worry. Being able to make fun of yourself, and take it from others, was the way we showed each other how much love, comfort, and trust we shared.

Giving each other a hard time was also a great excuse to exercise and stretch our senses of humor. If you had a one liner or comment, it was almost a crime not to share it with the gang. And if something was funny enough, you just couldn’t be upset about it - even if it was said in your direction.

Sometimes you just have to say what you’re thinking. We all learned to do that, too. No one had to guess what another was thinking. They’d let you know. No one held back on what they were thinking. There were very few filters. But that helped us learn to respect each other’s thoughts and ideas. We also learned how to disagree with respect (mostly) and still be friends.

Playing without adults present allowed us to learn and grow in ways we couldn’t have if we had grown up today. Left to our own devices, we were given the opportunity to learn, experience, and grow in ways that would shape us forever.

We all only had house phones, and we all knew how to use them. So if you wanted to play with someone, and you wanted to save a step, you called them yourself. If they were home, you were in! If not, you just called or went over to the home of your next option until you found someone.

Walking over to your friend’s house, ringing the doorbell, and asking, “Is Jeff home?” or “Can Jeff come out and play?” was the currency of the day. And if you went over to someone’s house, and they already had someone over, they just invited you in and all three of you played. The more the merrier.

In the absence of adults, we made our own choices, used our own judgment, and navigated our friendships on our own. Sometimes we handled things great. Sometimes we failed miserably. When we failed, we learned from it, asked for forgiveness (usually), and moved on to the next thing. In the 70s, touching a hot stove truly meant touching a hot stove. And when you got burned, that lesson was seared into your head. We rarely made the same mistakes twice.

Playing together, without parents, also taught us how to win and lose. We weren’t burdened by our parent’s desire to win. We didn’t have to mirror or support any of their bad habits or carry the jealousy some parents have for other parents whose kids are better or more athletic. We quickly learned that if we wanted to keep playing the games and keep our friends, you couldn’t be a horrible loser. On the flip side, you couldn’t be an ass when you win, because no one would want to play with you then, either.

We didn’t know it at the time… we couldn’t have known it at the time… but we would be part of the last generation to grow up without widespread organized youth sports. We would be the last to learn life lessons we didn’t even know we were learning through the experience of trying and failing without the constant presence of adults.

There were no adults present to meddle, make decisions, pressure, gossip, enforce rules, yell at the kids, or even to just sit quietly, cheer nicely, and enjoy the show. We learned by trial and error. We felt and guessed our way through things until we saw what worked and what didn’t.

We were young, free, and healthy. We woke up, charged up with breakfast, and headed outside to conquer the day. And if, for some reason, there was an energy deficiency, you were always one bowl of Lucky Charms or spoonful of sugar away from maximum power.

It sounds a bit idyllic, when I think back on it. But it was. We were truly free to make our own choices and decisions and learn from them. And there were no parents hovering around to guide events. It was trial, error, learn, and try again. And we would be the last generation of kids to grow up this way.

* * *

Fast forward 30 years. My wife and daughter, after 11 years living in Wisconsin, relocated to Seattle for a job. When we arrived, it was cold and gray. There were fences everywhere and kids who wanted to play with my daughter had their parents call us to make a play date. Adults were involved in every aspect of kids’ lives.

I should have been able to predict how this would all inevitably play out. But then, I don’t think anyone could have…

Chapter Two of Nothing Ruins Youth Sports Like Adults

Seattling In

We moved to Seattle in the summer of 2009 and moved into a house just five days before my daughter’s kindergarten school year would begin. We looked at more than 120 houses over two months, working hard to try and get settled before the school year began. It was important to us that wherever our daughter started, she had the entire K-12 experience within that school system and with the same kids.

Days before the school year began, we learned she had been admitted into Hillside Elementary, part of the Seabottom School District. This was great news, as the school was a short five-minute walk from our house. She’d never need to ride a bus.

It was a great first year. My wife volunteered at the school, so we always had inside information on the inner workings of the school. We learned how the school system worked and who were the best teachers.

My daughter had a great teacher, Mrs. Lipton, and she made many friends. Although, we learned a thing or two about friends in the Pacific Northwest in 2009.

Gone were the days when kids just ran around the neighborhood to each other’s houses, knocking on doors, and asking if they could play. Because of all the fences, my daughter couldn’t just run through the backyards. And most of her friends lived too far away for an easy walk to their house.

Sometimes I would walk with her to a friend’s house so she could knock and see if they wanted to play. We quickly learned that this was just not done in the Pacific Northwest. Parents made it clear through their passive aggressive remarks and demeanor that if my daughter wanted to play with their children, she should really have me call them.

This was another dynamic that I was learning fast. When we grew up, everyone had access to the house phone, so kids could call their friends directly and arrange their own plans. But now the only means of communication in most households is the smartphone, and most kids aren’t getting their own until around 10-14 years of age. So it was up to parents to call other parents to make arrangements.

Of course, when you leave this to parents, play goes from a spontaneous appearance on a friend’s doorstep to an arranged “play date” with a start time and an end time. Sometimes, like a well-structured work meeting, there’s even an agenda including what games and activities will be undertaken during the play date.

Having grown up with the ability to always be out with friends doing something, I was a pretty aggressive play date maker (though I refuse, to this day, to call them “play dates''). But I quickly decided to teach my daughter how to do this on her own. Now she was making the calls to arrange her own play.

Every so often, she’d ask kids to “do something,” as kids do, and they’d say they were busy or already had plans. The pattern revealed itself fairly quickly, and I realized that again, unlike the Midwest, when one had a play date with another, there was no room for a third.

When I used to appear at a friend’s house and there was already someone there, it was “the more the merrier.” More kids meant more friends. More friends meant more fun. The more kids you could assemble, the more potential for adventures you would remember forever. It also meant more potential for fun.

My wife was starting to make neighborhood friends through volunteering at school, and my daughter was starting to establish some solid friendships. Now it was my turn to find my place: I chose volunteer coaching.