OPINION PAGES
I
Series: Daddy Danger
Parents are the reason bleachers exist, not that they use them
Randal Walton
rwalton@unca.edu - Sports Editor
Parents usually encour
age their children to play
a sport in their youth to
build “people skills.” Nor
mally, parents know their
place is on the sidelines
and the bench. Yet, some
parents like to root on
their children from center
court.
My sister, Brianna,
played sports her entire
life. She played so many
I can’t remember them all. But I always believed that
out of all the sports she played, she gave her heart to
basketball. As a child, she always threw things around
the house, pretending the trash can was a basketball
hoop. She got into basketball last, during middle and
high school. I remember the look on my dad’s face
when she told him she was trying out for the basket
ball team. I could tell he was trying to keep his face
from spreading into a large grin. He succeeded in
keeping his face composed, if only slightly.
Usually, I never went any of my sister’s games with
my father. One time, my father insisted that I go in
order to practice driving so I could pass my upcom
ing driving test. I assumed my subconscious kept me
from attending any of Brianna’s games with my father
because it anticipated foolishness on the part of my
father. Let’s just say that my subconscious never tells
me lies.
This game, a road game, took place at a high school
that prided itself on that fact that most of its student
body was richer than most of the other schools in
Charlotte. I always despised this school because of its
pretentious attitude.
My father practically bounced as he walked to the
bleachers like we were getting ready to watch Leb-
ron James and Kobe Bryant instead of a couple high
school adolescents. He sat a couple of rows from the
actual court; I suspected he didn’t want to show his
eagerness. He started conversations with some parents
he recognized, introducing me with a large grin on his
face. In every conversation he introduced me as “his
oldest daughter who was going to UNC Asheville in
the fall.” My heart tinged with a bit of pride, but I still
gave a shy, embarrassed smile —-1 don’t like people to
brag about me.
All of the conversation ended once the game started.
About five minutes into it, I promoted my subcon
scious to genius status. My dad inched his way down a
bleacher towards the court, yelling the entire way.
“Get your girl!” he yelled. “Get your girl! Don’t let
her get by you!”
At this moment, I remember a look my mother gave
me before I left the house to go to this game. She
raised an eyebrow and glanced purposefully at my
dad. Now, I understood what she meant: You don’t
even know what you’re getting into.
Two voices blended in with each other, command
ing my sister and her teammates: the coach’s and
my father’s. Only one voice was supposed to yell
commands. Only one voice got paid for that specific
action.
My dad kept yelling, turning his attention to my
sister.
“You got to keep up Brianna, get down court!” he
said.
Although I’m sure my sister heard him, she never
turned her head. I think she believed if she didn’t turn
her head, no one would know she was the Brianna he
screamed at, since they only had their last names on
the backs of their jerseys.
While she had the luxury of pretending she didn’t
know him, I sat in the stands trying to distance myself
from my wannabe-coach father. I slid farther away
from him, thinking that some physical distance could
alleviate the pressure of the eyes I could feel drilling
into the back of my head. Then, I felt someone tap my
shoulder. I turned around to see a very pretty middle-
aged woman. She looked like Kerry Washington and
had some pretty amazing hair - it was probably a
weave, but it still looked good.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Is that your father?”
“Uh...” I didn’t know what to say. I had two op
tions: 1) to claim him as my father, therefore my
distancing would amount to nothing, or 2) tell her that
he was just a family friend I drove here to support his
daughter. Then I remembered that my father already
introduced me to half the audience as his oldest
daughter, so that effectively eliminated option two.
“Yes,” I said, sighing. “Yes, it is.”
See DADDY page 15
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