MODERN DAD | By Jon Show

May 10. Well, here we are. It’s summertime and we’re gearing up for another summer of youth travel sports.

In the last few years I’ve been to mountainy places like Asheville. Boring places like Goldsboro. Smelly places like Philadelphia. Fancy places like Naples. And countless other towns that I believe only exist to host youth sports tournaments, like Emerson, Georgia.

Never been to Emerson? It’s five turf fields next to a giant pizza arcade, a Starbucks and a gas station in northwest Georgia. An area so remote that no one has ever been there except Lewis and Clark and youth sports parents.

All of these places, despite their geography, are held together by one common thread that makes them all feel like home to the same traveling circus, moving its big red tent of insanity from one town to another.

Idiot sports parents.

Eye 95

I’m a big believer in the old 80/20 rule but I find the 95/5 ratio to be more accurate when it comes to sports parents – 95 percent of people are fine but the 5 percent who are morons make the entire experience annoying for everyone else.

I can’t stress this enough to the 5 percent – none of us can stand you and find your existence on ball fields, courts and rinks across the country to be juvenile, insufferable and miserable.

I’ve listened to parents yell at officials for making a very correct call that they deemed incorrect because they don’t know the rules of the sport they’re watching.

I’ve listened to people berate their kids for failing to live up to the expectations of two parents who probably never played sports at a level above church league basketball.

I’ve listened to parents yell instructions at their kids that are so far from helpful or accurate that they may as well be standing at midfield yelling “MOMMY LOVES PIZZA PIE.”

  It’s not just the parents yelling incorrect instructions to their kids, there’s also the ones who shout the most obvious things ever – like ”SHOOT” or ”GET THE BALL. ”

My favorite example comes from volleyball, where all the parents yell ”GET IT OVER” the entire match, as if there were any other goal in the sport of volleyball other than trying to get the ball over the net.

If you’re a parent who’s confused as to why we find your behavior annoying please drop me a line. I’d like to come to work with you this week and when the phone rings or an email notification pops up I’m going to yell ”ANSWER IT! ANSWER IT!”

Wheels go ‘round

In addition to Mr. and Mrs. Obvious screaming from the sidelines there are the nonstop complainers to further annoy those of us who just want to sit there and watch our kids run around with their friends.

In lacrosse there are ”WHEELS” dads. They yell ”WHEELS” when their kid gets the ball because they want him to run faster than he currently is running, as if genetics were the least important factor in a kid being able to run fast.

We also have ”SLASH” parents. They yell ”SLASH” anytime someone whacks their babies with a lacrosse stick, which is a completely legal move in most cases and a very important part of playing defense. Alas, the parents don’t like it so they yell ”SLASH” at all occasions.

The cousin of ”SLASH” moms are ”HELMET” Moms, who yell ”HELMET” anytime a stick comes within five inches of her baby’s helmet even if her baby is so uncoordinated that he grabs a stick and whacks himself in the head with it.

In soccer there are ”HAND BALL” parents, who think there’s a hand ball every time the ball rises above someone’s knee, and the IT’S OUT parents, who don’t understand the ball isn’t out of bounds until it’s entirely over the line.

And then we have the “COME ON” parents. They’re always very upset about something but never fully communicate what is bothering them. “COME ON!”

In all honesty I’ve been guilty of the latter on an occasion or two but it’s usually under my breath. We’re all flawed.

Question and answer?

Which brings us to the worst parents … the ones who yell questions instead of instructions, as if the reason little Jimbo wasn’t performing at peak capacity is because he knows he’s supposed to do something but just isn’t capable of completing the task.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

I don’t know dad? Maybe he can’t do it. Maybe he doesn’t want to do it? Maybe ask him later on instead of trying to insert yourself into his life experience?

Now, if our children are on teams together and you think I’m talking about you please know that I’m not. You might fall into one of these categories but I’ll never know. It’s why my chair is positioned as far away from midfield as possible. Plausible deniability.

Let’s also be clear that I’m not chastising people for caring or rooting for their kids. Far from it. I love parents who root for their kids. I root for my kids all the time. I love watching my kids play sports.

It’s the people who clearly have some sort of void in their lives and are choosing their kids’ sports as a way to fill it.

You can tell the worst ones because they hold their behavior like a badge of honor. Like it’s something that can’t be controlled. Like it’s fueled by some inner fire that makes them care more than other parents.

Imagine the arrogance to think that you care more about your child than someone else cares about their child solely because you have no self-control?

Sound of Silence

The Blonde Bomber is wrapping up sixth grade so I have six more years of sports with her. Future Man started playing sports six years ago so that means I’m at the midway point with my kids.

Maybe I’m having a midlife crisis, but I don’t want a sports car. I don’t want a younger wife. I don’t want to start wearing high fashion clothing or quit my job.

I just want to sit in my comfy chair, alongside all the other people who just want to sit in their comfy chairs, and watch our kids play sports.

Without you, the 5 percent, whom the rest of us can’t stand and find your existence on ball fields, courts and rinks across the country to be juvenile, insufferable and miserable. To those of you I say this:

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Jon Show lives in Robbins Park with his wife, who he calls “The Mother of Dragons.” Their 15-year-old son is “Future Man” and their 11-year-old daughter is “The Blonde Bomber.” Their dog is actually named Lightning.