Monday Morning Musings

There was an interesting column in The Dallas Morning News last week that was written by a teacher, Jay Riven. He wrote about how troubling it is that children are given trophies at the end of a losing season in soccer or baseball. He mentioned how many trophies his young daughter had just for participating in sports and wondered if the practice of giving kids trophies was a good idea.

That reminded me of when our kids were young and playing soccer. Our son's team was playing a final season game that would determine if they would advance to the finals and they lost. It was a tough moment for all the kids who had played hard and given their best, and we were all a little sad for them. At the picnic following the game, the coach proceeded to give the boys each a trophy, which at first I thought was a nice gesture. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if it really was.

A trophy, as Riven pointed out in his article, should be earned by winning, not given as a consolation prize. Sure kids are going to be disappointed when they lose, and a good coach can take some time to praise them for giving a good effort, but that should be it. The trophy should be reserved for those special moments of achievement. Then it will mean more.

Riven calls that "the triumph of achievement."

Our society today seems so focused on building a child's self esteem, some of us have forgotten that losing a game or not getting a trophy is all part of the system. If we want that trophy, maybe we try harder next season and earn it. If we get a poor grade on a class assignment, maybe we try harder for the A next time.

Trophies and passing grades and high praise should not be automatic, they should come in small doses and when well earned. If a child is always rewarded for everything they do, how are they challenged to do better?

What do you think? I'd love to get your opinion.

Whose Ball is It?

A couple of weeks ago I posted an excerpt about soccer from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. A number of readers responded to the story of beginner soccer players and how much fun it is to watch, and the readers asked if I would be posting more soccer stories. There are a couple more in this chapter about soccer, so here is another one. Enjoy....


For a long time I thought nobody would top Michael’s less-than-stellar debut at soccer, until one of my grandson’s started his first game.

Like Michael, Justin has an older brother who was quite gifted at the sport, and Justin played a lot of backyard soccer before joining a team. Also like Michael, he has a strong sense of what is fair and what is not. I mean, like really strong. The Gorilla Glue of fair play.

At his first game, he got into a debate with one of the defenders from the other team who took the ball away from him. Obviously, Justin thought the game ought to be played like the scrimmages with his brother who never took the ball away. Undaunted, the opposing player told Justin that it was his job to get the ball away from him.

“But it’s my job to put it in the goal,” Justin said. “And if you aren’t going to let me, then I’m not going to play.”

With that, he walked off the field. The coach, the other players, the referee, his mother and the rest of us were speechless. Then we darn near choked to death trying to swallow laughter.

Again, in the spirit of fairness, Justin did learn how to play on a team and did quite well at soccer for a number of years.

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This is a real busy day for me. I am also guest blogging at a new blog that is devoted to teen reading and Y/A books. Hop on over to Teen Fiction and Other Stuff by C.K. Green if you would like to join in a fun discussion about being socially unacceptable.

Who's Turn is it to Kick?

I realized today that it has been a while since I shared an excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. The following is from a chapter on soccer, a sport that dominated our lives for many years. Enjoy....

Long before anyone heard of Soccer Moms and Sarah Palin, I was spending several days a week at soccer games or schlepping kids to practice. For a number of years our lives revolved around the soccer fields and trying to make it to two or more games on a Saturday, sometimes scheduled only fifteen minutes apart and at opposite sides of town.

Three of our kids, David, Michael, and Dany, played regularly for several years. The other two did not enjoy soccer. Anjanette stayed with swimming and diving before getting into gymnastics and dance.

Paul made a valiant effort to hold to the family tradition and tried the sport for one year before deciding he just didn’t care for it. He tried baseball after that, and didn’t care for it, either, finally realizing he wasn’t really the athletic type, which doesn’t mean he wasn’t in shape. One year he won a Physical Training trophy in JrROTC for doing the most sit-ups in a minute – over a hundred. I’m not sure who was the most surprised, Paul, me, or the buff kid he beat out.

David was the one who started the craze at our house. He took to the sport like he was a Pele clone and played for two years before Michael made his debut. David has always been a good athlete, and he really liked the competitive spirit of the game, so the only problem he encountered on the field, was trying not to trip over the sole of his shoe that we tried to hold together with Duct tape. He was also lucky enough to start off on a good team, with good coaches, and they twice vied for city champs.

So I became a Soccer Mom before it was a status symbol. I loved to watch the games, and I usually ended up hoarse from cheering and exhausted from pacing up and down the sidelines. I never thought that taking an interest in our children’s activities would be so tiring.

As soon as Michael was old enough, he wanted to play, so we signed him up. On the way to his first game, he was very excited about his new soccer shoes, his jersey, and his shorts, and I started to wonder what he thought the game was all about. He asked me if I would yell and cheer the way I do at David’s games, and I told him of course, that’s a mother’s place in the scheme of things. But I’m not sure if the following fit the definition of cheering:
“Michael, kick the ball. Don’t just stand there!”
“Michael, get up! If you’re tired, your coach can put somebody in for you.”
“Michael, you’re not out there to pick flowers, you’re out there to play soccer.”
“Yes, Michael, I saw you kick the ball. Now get back into the game.”
“Michael, if the coach says come out of the game, come out. Don’t stand there arguing with him.”

And so the season went, with the kids playing what some of us called “chicken soccer.” That’s where all the players flock together around the ball and seem to move up and down the field in that cluster. Once in a while one kid would break loose and make a run at the goal, only to stop when the goalie said, “Stop.”

Obviously, this was not a team intent on winning a championship.