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Lessons learned from the bleachers
Column by The Post's Lonnie Wheeler

As of this week - elimination days in basketball - Martie and I are no longer high school sports parents. Now that our wee one has completed her rounds, we're allegedly if belatedly possessed of that precious thing called perspective.

The best lessons we've learned - some of them started long before high school - have come from the likes of our friend Mike, who put soccer moves to music and from time to time let his T-ball team practice under the sprinklers. Also from the other kinds - the screamers and dreamers, the complainers and fast-laners, the absent and obsessed, the mothers and fathers of the only kid who apparently matters.

And from the kids, of course.

The short list looks something like this:

Let the coach coach (lest you embarrass your child and yourself). Don't yell instructions from the bleachers. It confuses your kid and undermines the coach, who then has to undo your damage. You lose credibility, not to mention dignity.

Let the ref ref (lest you embarrass your child and yourself). First-hand reports from the floor and field inform us that, on a high percentage of occasions, the official was right in his call and you were wrong in your protest and your kid wished you would just watch the game and cheer when good things happen and shout encouragement when they don't. Baleful bellowing only darkens the atmosphere. Plus, you never sound as clever to other people as you do to yourself. (Trust me on that one.)

Don't throw stuff onto the field. There was this soccer game. It was getting a bit chippy, and one of the boys on the other team turned to one on ours and said, "Uh oh, my mom's probably going to do something stupid." About that time, a bottle or whatever came flying out of the stands and landed in the grass. "Dang it, Mom," said the poor kid, head dropping and shoulders slumping. The game was called.

Don't make your kid cry. See, if they cry, they won't want to play anymore, except maybe to make you proud of them and possibly say something nice on occasion, which is not the right reason. Kids are smart. They understand that your criticism, particularly if it comes with an edge, is your way of saying that you're not pleased with them. Pleasing you is not the object here.

Don't excessively praise, either. It makes the kid think that he or she is better than the coaches realize, and probably better than some other kid who's getting more playing time. That's not such a bad thought until it's aggravated and swells to the point that your kid resents the coach, and resents the teammate, and it begins to show, and all's the worse.

Don't turn your child against the prople on the same side. This is the nefarious cousin of the above. A kid needs to respect authority, not rail against it. He or she needs to cooperate with co-workers, not plot against them. Kids need to realize that the team was not created to be their personal showcase; that it, like everything else, is really not all about them.

The final score will not be nearly as critical to the rest of anybody's life as you thought at the time. As my daughter said, "Don't suck the fun out of it." What your child will remember, in the years ahead, is the experience, the camaraderie, the times. Friends and funny things. More indelible than the score will be the pursuit of it. Whatever the final numbers, the food supply in Central Africa will be largely unaffected.

The other team is not evil. Without it, you'd have nobody to play. Besides, other people's children are no less worthy of your applause than your own.

Forget the scholarship. At least, be real. Division I scholarships come along rarely. Division II offers a few. Division III is a sometimes expensive but generally wonderful alternative. Meanwhile, most schools, regardless of intercollegiate classification, offer academic aid. You want your kid to go to college? All for algebra, stand up and holler.

No pushing. Enable, Mabel. Show the way, Jose. Then step aside, Clyde. You can lead a horse to the salad bar, but you can't make it eat that raw broccoli that they put out in great big chunks.

And then it ends. We've received no instruction on this part. What do you do for a social life?