By Jeannie Blasberg
The nervous stomach, the sweaty palms, the anxiousness that envelopes your body while you smile and try to appear nonchalant. If you’ve ever watched someone you love play squash, you know just what I’m talking about. I first experienced this phenomenon watching my husband play. Wanting so much for him to do well, I would telepathically will strategies into his brain, “straight, now drop, now deep.”
This sensation reached new levels when my children started entering tournaments. My husband and I may have been more reticent than some in coming to the decision that our kids were composed enough to handle the pressure. Win or lose, the message they receive from us is that it’s a fun game, and it’s a great game, but it’s just a game—something they will be able enjoy the rest of their lives. Maybe we should have been as concerned about our own maturity, because putting your child in the tournament squash court “fish bowl” can make even the most secure parent a bit vulnerable.
Having played in a lot of my own competitive matches, this babe-in-the woods feeling is a little surprising. What’s more, these nerves are completely irrational and disproportionate to the importance of a squash match, or any sporting event for that matter. I find myself envying the relative coolness of the veteran squash parents. The “We’ve-Been-Here-Before” attitude is quite apparent from the way draws are quickly studied and consumed (presumably taking in far fewer “what-if” scenarios than me).
In October, I took my sons to Dartmouth for the Fall Foliage (coined the “Pre-Season Shake Down” by one veteran friend). Chatting with other parents, I was asked where the boys and I were staying. Confessing to the no-frills motor-lodge I had been lucky to find totally exposed my greenhorn status. I believe their chuckles were sympathetic as they offered up insider tips for the other remote New England stops on “the tour.” Just as kids acquire a certain swagger with their improved seeding in the draws, so do the parents with their firm mattresses at the Marriott.
Where to sit? My gut tells me not too front and center, yet prominently enough to show support. I notice other parents either sitting on the bleachers or standing in the back, casually partaking in friendly banter (an eye always roving toward the court). Some parents pace, or disappear between games, leaving all coaching to a third party. I know some who can’t even be in the building (their preference or their child’s?). I decide I’m comfortable in the bleachers and, unsure how vocal to be, I give only an occasional, encouraging cheer. Now, if this were a Howe Cup teammate, I wouldn’t have thought twice about cheering! Being the parent complicates things.
It seems more acceptable for siblings or junior friends to take part in the enthusiastic cheering. I’m afraid it seems downright crazy from a mother. As I consciously bite my tongue, I notice a few things about junior tournament cheering. Stadium seating at a place like Harvard’s Murr Center lends itself to more “anonymous” loud outbursts versus the more refined decorum of an intimate club setting. I sit on my hands, quietly sweating the ups and downs of each game (more than if I was playing myself—I’m considering wearing my heart rate monitor to see how many calories this burns!). I wince at the inevitable close or late calls by the ref, silently resenting anything less than 100% laser-like attention on the rallies. I offer only words of encouragement and water between games. One of the nicer compliments I’ve received from my 13 year old (one year removed from having been declared the most un-cool person he knew) was that he appreciates my 90-second pep talks.
The most difficult challenge is at the end of the match, not wanting my kids to catch wind of the stomach churning experience I had just endured. Regardless of the outcome, the real victory for me, as a parent, is watching my kids have fun. They play hard, but when the match is over and they graciously shake their opponent’s hand, we both have a smile on our face.
