Purple Wristbands

Back in the day, the whistle blew, the other team threw the ball in, and you fuckin figured out who you were guarding. It wasn't that hard. 

Nowadays, the whistle blows, the 9-year-old YMCA Lakers line up at half-court across from the 9-year-old YMCA Celtics, and they all put on their stupid fucking wristbands. The kid on the Lakers with the yellow wristband guards the kid on the Celtics with the yellow wristband, the kid on the Lakers with the green wristband guards the kid on the Celtics with the green wristband, and my little Boni who plays for the Lakers and is complete trash at basketball and always needs to wear the purple wristband cuz she loves purple guards the kid on the Celtics with the purple wristband.

It's a fucking joke. The coaches make the kids point at each other as if to say, "You're wearing a purple wristband and I'm wearing a purple wristband, so I'm guarding you!"

It's shameful. And it teaches them nothing. In fact, it teaches them wrong. Cuz now instead of understanding that you gotta guard whoever you need to guard and that you need to protect the rim at all times and that you always need to see the ball and your man, you just run around like a fucking moron making sure you're guarding the kid with the purple wristband.

No joke, the ball could be on the right side of the court and a kid could be dribbling directly to the basket about to shoot a lay-up, yet there will be kids on the left side of the court who have absolutely no idea where the ball is because they're only paying attention to the kid who has the same color wristband.

It's a fucking travesty, and by "supporting" kids in this way, we are ruining them.

Here's another one: Broosevelt, my 9-year-old son who is actually somewhat decent at basketball, plays in a league that actually has some decent players but the league has a rule that you can't guard the other team until they get to the 3-point line. You can't guard 'em when they get the rebound and you can't even guard 'em once they cross half-court. You have to stand behind the 3-point line and wait until they make the first pass, and then you can finally play defense. 

Here's how this plays out: The other team shoots and misses, Broosevelt grabs the rebound, and there are two dudes on the other team right next to him. In normal life, Broosevelt would have to protect the ball by passing it, dribbling away from them, etc. But in this world of irony and stupidity, Broosevelt just dribbles up the court and pays no attention whatsoever to the kids on the other team running next to him because those kids can't touch the ball. So now Broosevelt has no idea how to protect the ball because he's never needed to protect the ball.

You know what else Broosevelt can't do? Cross the street by himself. You know what else? Make his own lunch. You know what else? Wipe his own ass. Just kidding, he wipes himself, but it is true that I still help him cross the street and that I still make him a sandwich every day. Yes, I contribute to this Culture of Enabling, but no longer. I might throw some turkey and cheese on a piece of bread for him but he will heretofore navigate on his own through traffic.

I heard a report the other day on NPR titled, "Shots can be scary and painful for kids. One doctor has a plan to end needle phobia." Are you fucking kidding me? "Needle phobia?" No one likes needles. Needles suck. But this isn't a "phobia." This is something kids are scared of because it fucking hurts, so how about instead of NPR lamenting the "distress parents experience at hearing their child scream at the doctor's office" and labeling it "emotional torture," we all calm the fuck down a bit and tell our kids, "Look, it's gonna hurt a little. You'll be fine. Stop crying." Our kids will say, "You mock my pain!" (Princess Bride), and we will respond, "Life is pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something."

I "help" Broosevelt and Boni by pouring their Cheerios and milk. The Boss "helps" our kids by plying them with Advil at the slightest hint of discomfort. My students' psychotic parents "help" their kids by obsessively protecting them from a B.

We protect our kids from pain, and they're weak. We protect our kids from chaos on the basketball court, and they suck at basketball. We hold their hands when they cross the street, and they end up dead like a smushed Frogger.

Back in the day, normal parental love meant a healthy mix of affection and discipline. Nowadays, that's known as "tough love." Eventually, "tough love" will be known as "abuse" because "love" will mean letting full-figured Little Johnny eat a whole pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey and then demanding Little Johnny's principal be fired when he doesn't expel the two "bullies" who "body-shamed" our Little Johnny by calling him "fat."

More basketball: Broosevelt plays in another league which generally consists of kids who are borderline physically disabled. At halftime they give both teams two minutes to make as many lay-ups as possible. I'm cool with that. Seems fun. Keeps everyone active. But what I'm not cool with is that each team gets a point for every lay-up they make. So, if the score is 10-0 at halftime and both teams make 10 lay-ups, now the score is 20-10, and the team that didn't score a single fucking point in the first half is still down 10 points but feels much better about itself. They don't need to feel better about themselves. What they need is to feel like absolute shit for not having scored a single point so they go home, work hard, and become better basketball players.

Pain is a good thing. Pain motivates us. Pain makes us think creatively and problem-solve. If a B makes you cry, work harder. If losing hurts, play better. If you're about to get hit by a car, run. 

I'll tell you who can't figure out shit because her mother has never made her figure out anything: Panini, my 15-year-old incompetent. For years, yes years, the Boss gathered laundry from the floor of Panini's room, washed it, dried it, folded it, and put it back in Panini's room. Panini couldn't even be bothered to put it away, leaving it in piles scattered around her room. The Boss eventually said that if Panini didn't put away her clean clothes and put her dirty clothes in the hamper, she would stop doing her laundry. Panini didn't do shit, so the Boss stopped doing her laundry. Fast forward a couple weeks, and Panini literally had no clean underwear and was gathering dirty socks off her floor to wear to school. So what did the Queen of Enabling do? Buy her more underwear.

Everything that enables my kids has, in fact, disabled them. They ask Siri what 12 times 6 is because they can't do math. They use the Maps app to walk .3 miles to 7-11 because they, and I'm not exaggerating here, don't know north from south. They use Snapchat to "communicate" because they are incapable of talking on the phone, let alone being in the same room with another human being and making eye contact.

Some more basketball: Panini played on the JV basketball team this year at her high school. I repeat: high school. In a game early in the season, her team was getting its ass kicked. At some point I notice the clock keeps running when the whistle blows so, like the asshole dad I am, I yell out "Clock!" Happens again, and I again yell out "Clock!" No one pays me any attention and the clock keeps running. Turns out that there is a district-wide rule that when a team is losing by more than 30 points, the clock doesn't stop. In other words, they make the game go faster to avoid a total massacre. In other words, they make every girl on both teams play less basketball so all the girls on one team can feel a bit less shitty about themselves.

Look, I'm down with the "mercy rule" but only to a point. If a 9-year-old baseball team is losing by more than 10 runs after five innings, fine, call it. If a 12-year-old soccer team is losing by more than 10 goals deep in the second half, fine, call it.

Actually, no, fuck that. Make the soccer team that's winning make 20 passes before they can shoot. Take one of their players off the field. Make it so they can only shoot with their left foot. Would the losing team still feel humiliated despite all those adjustments? Yes. But at least they'd get to play more soccer. See, that's the issue: We're so hell-bent on "protecting" our kids that we've sacrificed play for pity.

Fuck it, more basketball: Late in the season, Panini's team was, once again, getting crushed. The opposing team scored a basket to go up by 27 points and Panini's coach looked over to the scoring table and said, "Just let it run." You heard me right: This skinny little fuck asked for the "mercy rule" to be implemented before it was supposed to be implemented. What makes it worse is that he wasn't trying to "protect" his players. He just wanted the game to be done because he's a shitty, uninvested coach who felt humiliated by the debacle unfolding in front of him for which he was primarily responsible. But all that's for a different blog post...

Back in the day, criminals wore handcuffs. Nowadays, kids wear handcuffs disguised as purple wristbands. Our kids don't have the freedom to fuck up. And learn.

I'm done making lunches.

Sorry, not sorry: Yesterday at Boni's YMCA game, the Celtics were beating the Lakers 20-10 and the YMCA folks told the Celtics coach he had to make his players make five passes before they could shoot. The score wasn't 40-3 or 55-12. The Celtics were winning by ten motherfucking points, tears were already being shed, and feelings were already being protected.

Enough already.

Privilege gives our children the opportunity to thrive, but some of us have so much privilege that we need to give our kids the ultimate opportunity: the freedom to fail.