All the hoopla surrounding the trial of Thomas Junta, the Massachusetts truck driver who beat to death another “hockey dad” at his son’s practice in the summer of 2000, has called into question the role parents should play in children’s sports.
Some people are crying for a screening process on all coaches and referees hired (Junta’s victim, who supposedly started the fight, was supervising the practice); others want parents off the ice, field, diamond and court all together. As a former child athlete, I’d like to throw in my two cents.
I played soccer in Lufkin, Texas, from the time I was 3 years old through my sophomore year in high school. Most people I saw playing soccer were of Tejano heritage, not American. We were a dedicated bunch, even though some years we only had enough players for one or two teams. We’d spend our Saturdays and Sundays packed into minivans like sardines, driving to any town we could find with a team willing to play us. When all else failed, we would challenge the Mexicans who lived adjacent to the fields. The rotating squad of males aged 5 to 50 would beat us every time, but at least we were playing.

I digress. During my soccer experience, one woman — the mother of one of my teammates
— never missed a game.
She was a tyrant, 90 pounds of Ralph Lauren-clad, Lexus-driving piss and vinegar. “I’m getting the spoon” she would yell to her son from the sidelines whenever he botched a shot, or got the ball taken from him. She was referring to a wooden cooking spoon she used for corporal punishment. But everyone on the team heard the threats of getting the spoon.
No one — not the ref, not the opposing team nor their parents, not even I — was safe when she was on the warpath, which was quite often, as we were a terrible team.
She was an overbearing little woman, but at least she was there. Game after game, weekend after weekend, she was there for us, all of us, especially those whose mothers couldn’t make it because they had to work a double shift in the emergency room and whose fathers lived clear across the country.
“I’ve got a spoon for you, too, Aaron! Get your butt in gear!” became something of a comfort to me and some of my friends in the same situation.
So here’s to her, and to all the other parents across America who provide us with jugs of Gatorade, Dixie cups and orange slices at halftime, and Cokes and candy bars after the game, win or lose. Without you, as mentally unstable as you were, there would be no children’s sports.
I’m not excusing the brutish behavior displayed by Junta. No child’s game, let alone practice, is worth descending to physical violence — especially in front of a group of kids. But sports, at heart, are war play. It is only natural that an organized display of aggression toward a group of people wearing different uniforms should arouse those more primal instincts in the people watching.
Besides, obsessive parent coaches have made the likes of Tiger Woods and Venus and Serena Williams into multi-millionaires. The athletes may be scarred for life and forever socially stunted, but at least they will be able to afford their medication. Looking forward to a life in journalism, that’s more than I can say.