The future of youth sports is in jeopardy

We have a national crisis. Our kids are at risk of having the opportunity to play sports. Why? Because of the physical and verbal abuse that the referees and umpires are receiving. Who is doing that? Parents.

A bit of a disclaimer. I was not the perfect parent of a young athlete. I disagreed with officials, maybe sometimes loudly. I got angry. But I never ever thought of hitting one. That’s not the case today. Game officials are regularly confronted and beaten, all across the country. Leagues everywhere are abandoning youth sports because of it.

I happen to believe that youth sports participation is an essential part of growing healthy adults. Youth sports are our best vehicle to learn teamwork, to learn how to be coachable, and to understand the pure joy of movement and athletic competition.

I’m the grandfather to six kids. All six play a sport of some kind. I would hate to think that we could live in a world where that wasn’t even an option to them. Last weekend, in attending the games of my grandchildren, I witnessed the genesis of a lot of this bad behavior—behavior that threatens the very existence of sports for kids. You think I’m exaggerating? Check it out. Look around the country. Leagues can’t find officials so they have to cease operations.

So here’s the scenario last weekend: I was sitting in the shade watching the end of a soccer game, waiting on the next field for my youngest grandson to play. What I saw was a young woman, obviously a mother, yelling at the referee, yelling at the players on both teams, eventually yelling at the opposing coach. Out of control.

I was sitting there calmly when I turned to my son and said “there’s my next column.” This was a game between two girls’ teams that were, oh, I would guess 5 and 6. I know this referee. He’s a good kid. A high school sophomore. There was nothing that he did that was unfair or inappropriate.

We then went to that youngest’s game with the same referee. No problems at all. No yelling parents. Coaches that were coaching. I have no idea who “won” that game. I couldn’t care less. My grandson was out there moving around, learning a little about the game, maybe learning a little about teamwork. Having fun.

So the next day, I went to another grandson’s flag football game. Soon enough, the parents from one team were yelling at the referees or coaching from the sidelines. As I sat down, I turned to my wife and said “I’m pretty sure I’m about to get more material for my column.”

Again, these were high school kids refereeing. Doing a great job. Talking calmly to the coaches and ignoring the parents, just like good referees everywhere. Near the end of the game, there was controversy about the score and the parents from the team that was behind were loud with their protests. These were the same parents that had been yelling the whole game.

But here’s the worst part—after the game, I heard three separate dads tell their sons “you really won the game, the referees just cheated you out of it.” Really? Like it matters? What kind of message are you sending to your kids?

Do you really think that coaching from the sidelines helps your child play better? Do you really think that winning a game at 10 is going to determine your child’s athletic career? There is no way that we know at 10 or 12 or even 14 whether a kid is going to be a sports star. And without a doubt, whether they win a youth sport game or not will have nothing to do with their ultimate athletic success.

Don’t get me wrong, I believe we need to keep score in our games. It gives them structure. But what if those games went away because we couldn’t find officials for those games?

Parents that coach constantly from the sidelines…are you trying to live vicariously through your children? Are you trying to get them to do things you couldn’t or wouldn’t accomplish? Do you really think that a college scholarship awaits your child if they succeed in youth sports?

Youth sports are all about movement and life skills that our children learn from participation. They don’t learn to be “winners” by winning a flag football game. They learn to be winners by learning the vast lessons that our games teach us. And from watching how their parents react to their games.

How about this—volunteer. Be a coach. Work in the concession stand. Better yet, be a referee. Your perspective will change. I guarantee it. And maybe you will understand that it is all about the participation and not about the game.

It's not about the bike

I made a new friend and rode my bicycle this past week. I know what you’re thinking--“Oh no, not another story about the bicycle.” Nope. Not this time. The bicycle is just the vehicle.


Here’s the story. This new friend was a good rider but unsure of his ability. He lives in a flat area so the hills around here intimidated him. He married a Tennessee girl but had only visited and had never brought a bike. Three years ago he had made a commitment that he was going to get fit. So he bought a bike. And started riding.


Barrell chested with a huge smile, he is quite fit. But he definitely isn’t one of the 130 pound bikers that can zoom uphill. He wasn’t too sure of his ability. It was part of my job to help him understand that he was totally capable of doing the rides that we had planned. I assured him that if he paced himself, recovered when he could, and refused to quit, he would be fine.


Did I mention that he was about to climb Butterfly Gap Road to Top of the World? Yeah. That. Never been up that road? It’s steep. And then toward the end, it gets even steeper. When it levels out and you think the climb is over, you get another steep section.


He made it with a smile on his face but that’s just where this story begins. You see, this fellow was from the middle east. From one of those countries where poverty is a way of life. Where women can’t get an education, hold a job, or drive a car. Where the law is whatever one man might decide it is and punishment can be swift and deadly. Where oppression is constant and children might be used as human bombs. That world.


While he was still a small child, his family decided to try and escape all that. He was just a child but he remembers it well. Days of walking, hiding, afraid to even beg for food because of the fear of getting caught. Hiding in a hole for 8 straight hours. He couldn’t whimper or cry lest he reveal his family’s position. A hole in the desert where he could have died.


Crossing into a country that didn’t want him. More walking but now they could beg for food. A family with small children sleeping anywhere they could find. For days on end. Threatened repeatedly by locals that hated him because of where he was from.  


Days turned into weeks and at every border crossing, the family was scrutinized, chastised.  Still having to beg for food and with everything they owned already bartered away for money to pay the bribes that those border crossings required, they were always hungry. And dirty. With but a few possessions they carried on their backs.


Finally, they got far enough to gain a certain amount of acceptance. A country that gave them just a whisper of a chance. Dad found work. They lived in a tent for a while. They were able to eat regularly.


But they had this dream. A dream of coming to America. The Land of Opportunity. Where freedom and equality ruled the land. Where you didn’t get beaten, maimed, or killed because of your religious beliefs.


So they lived a life of frugality that you and I would consider unfathomable. And they got enough money to come to America. They got jobs, found a place to live. Were able to go to school. Quietly built a life.


The rest of the story is still being written but I can tell you that that boy hiding in the bushes as his family escaped sheer hell is now a successful businessman with a lovely wife and two children. Manifesting that American dream. As far as I’m concerned, climbing Butterfly Gap on a bicycle is nothing.

Coach Dutton

I recently had the opportunity to reconnect with some old high school football teammates. And when I say old, I mean it. This was the 50^th reunion of the 1969 state champion Loudon Redskins football team. We were invited back to be a part of the induction of the 1^st Loudon High Sports Hall of Fame.

The game was the season opener against hated rival Lenoir City (I still don’t like the orange and black of Halloween). The game was on Thursday and my game was on Friday so I had the chance to go.


We were asked to arrive early and have the pre-game meal with the current team. The ’69 bunch sat and reminisced while the players wondered how this bunch of old guys could ever have played football. We joined them as Coach Harig delivered his pre-game speech, calling on his team to stand on the shoulders of those players that had gone before.


I really enjoyed catching up with old teammates like Dickie Blankenship, Wayne Poole, Ronnie Watkins, Fred Chaney, Scotty Akins, Yancy Hampton, Hank Evans. I’ve stayed in touch a bit with others, like Gordo Watson, J.L. Millsaps, and Lonnie Hawkins. I was overjoyed to get to spend time with Mike Bivens. I had not seen him in 25 years.


“Big Mike” and I spent a lot of years together. He and I went all through school together and were always among the better students, were good kids, and went to American Legion Boys’ State together. We even bagged groceries at the White Store together for a while. And when it came to football, we were side by side. He was the tackle and I was the guard on the right side. He was the defensive tackle and I was the linebacker behind him. Always together.


As his nickname implied, he was the biggest of all of us. I think he was class president all four of our high school years. He was our protector, our brother, our teammate. Smarter than most, gentler than all, I honestly recall only once seeing him angry. He made it a very special night for me.


It was also an opportunity to spend some quality time with one of our coaches, Dr. Gary Dutton.  Coach Dutton and I have crossed paths numerous times through the years but our conversations were always brief.


You may have heard my story about how legendary Loudon football Coach Bert “Chig” Ratledge changed my life’s direction forever when I overhead him tell someone “he can be a good one if he works at it.” He was talking about me, this underachieving high school sophomore with zero self-confidence. Coach Dutton was just as important an influence on me in those oh-so-important teenage years.


My senior season was 1970, the year that Maryville High won the high school state football championship. In my many years in Maryville, I’ve come to know a lot of those Maryville players. Tommy Beaver. John and Joe Emert. Buzz Thomas. Jeff Mills.


When we played them, I knew a lot of Maryville’s seniors by name. Coach Dutton, who played at Maryville College, had coached those players as 9^th graders at Maryville Junior High before returning to his alma mater to begin a long and storied career in coaching and academics. He made sure we knew them as individuals.


I was trash talking from the opening kickoff (yeah…I know…hard to believe), surprising the Maryville players by calling them by their names. We knew that team well. Jim Allison, all-state tackle that went to UT. Troy Bowman, a bruising fullback as big as our linemen.


Oh did we want to win that game for Coach Dutton. Those were his boys once but we were his team now. It was a great game. We led most of the game, up 21-7 at one time. It was tied 28-28 late in the game when Maryville scored the winning touchdown.


As I walked off the field, totally exhausted and broken hearted, I went up to Coach Dutton and said “I’m sorry Coach.” He replied “it’s OK Joe—you gave it everything you could.” And that’s something that has stuck with me my entire life--that there is honor in losing if you give it everything you’ve got.


We can never be successful at everything that we do. We will inevitably fail at something. But it’s what you do when you get knocked down that matters most—that is what determines who you really are.