little league dads

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Parental pride or purple faced persuasion? It's a father/son thing... 

The other weekend for the first time I shared an experience with parents everywhere. Charlie was taking part in his first competitive mountain bike event, and I was shouting encouragement to him as he approached the finish line. I was more than a touch self- conscious because I've seen over- zealous parents doing this and felt sympathy for their harried offspring.

But Charlie had just spent seven hours in the saddle after choosing a Polaris as his first taste of mountain bike competition (there are no half measures for Charlie - it's all or nothing) and I wanted him to know I was impressed. While I selfishly teamed up with my mates, my sister Alex had agreed to be Charlie's partner, take him under her wing for the weekend as it were. So I trust you'll forgive me for smiling proudly as he came down the last hill with Alex in hot pursuit towards the finish.

I've seen parents at races before, often over-keen and forcing their offspring to do well to compensate for their own shortcomings and lack of ability. It's a particularly nasty spectacle and one which manifests itself in virtually every sport short of, er, base jumping and synchronised body piercing (everyone has their limits of taste and decency, even "Little League" Dads).

One incredibly obnoxious bloke I happened upon at Hamsterley in 1994 rates as a my own personal benchmark of bad taste for the breed - there he was, bull-necked, bright red and bulging, bounding along at the back of a pack of sprog racers which included his own daughter. Like any six-year-old, she was doing her best. But she was tired. In fact, she was knackered. So what does shit-for-brains do?

"Come on, girl!" he roars. "You'll never bloody well win if you give up now!" Needless to say, the tirade of purple-faced abuse knocked the stuffing out of the kid. She wobbled, she stopped, she burst into floods of tears. Her dear father simply turned up the volume. Still bubbling, she was picked up, stuffed back onto her bike and pushed forcibly back into the fray.

To this day I regret not using physical violence and beating him to death with his daughter's 28lb pink beginner's bike. Her beaming face as she took her place on the podium later that afternoon was a sight her father should never have lived to see.

Then there are the parents who risk their own careers and livelihood to support their children, the ones who know when to lend encouragement and sympathy and when to stay quiet. One year at Shrewsbury I watched David Armstrong being quietly encouraged by his mum and dad and winning the downhill. Next thing you know he's been snapped up by BMB/Giant and he's winning NPS races. As I stood there watching Charlie and Alex pedal towards the line I finally understood how proud those parents feel when they see their own flesh and blood coming in to finish.

Charlie and I had been doing things together for years. We went to motorbike trials together in the late 70s. He came with me to my first bicycle trials even in some godforsaken East Lancashire mill village in the pissing rain, where he patiently stood around getting cold and wet while I was totally crap and fell off more times than I care to remember. He's been to mountain bike races where he's waited 'till just about everyone else has gone home while I slog around the last lap of the Sports race, shouting much needed encouragement to me.

Now it was my turn, and one day I hope we'll both stand and shout encouragement at a kid of my own.

You see, Charlie's my dad. He's not out there recapturing his youth. He took hold of that by the scruff of the neck when he turned 18 and he's never let go since.

And his grip's as good as ever.

August 1997