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“Sean, you need to focus,” the Dad behind me is saying. “You made the decision to reach for second base, now you have to commit. You’ll never make it on base if you can’t focus, make a quick decision and commit.” True that, Pops, I say to myself without turning, although his tone seems a little harsh.

Elizabeth, the boys and I are flying kites on Breton Point, a seaside park on a high bluff near Newport, Rhode Island. Noah, our youngest has decided it’s more fun being the moving target of his two older brothers’s dive-bombing stunt kites, so I’ve become the custodian of his own flying octopus kite, and my avian adventure has backed me into another family on the vast field, obviously in the midst of a sports outing of their own. Another play, bodies scurry behind me, yet I’m still too focused on Noah’s kite to pay much attention—

“See that’s what I’m talking about Sean!” he continues, “If only you could show that same intensity in your other sports!”

If only, I chuckle to myself. My back is still to them as Noah’s kite pierces the thermal updraft that will lift it above the tree-line for a good while; finally I turn to the scene behind me, fully expecting to see a father/coach fine-tuning his high school or junior high school aged son’s baseball skills on a Saturday afternoon break from regular team play. Only, Sean turns out to be a child of no more than six, and they’re playing kickball—against their mom and little sister, who appears even younger than Sean.

Intensity? In kickball? Against your kid- sister? Is it just me, or is Pops just a little too over-the-top?

Back in town next Saturday, it’s the first day of Noah’s first grade soccer league. We are hopeful that Noah, now six years old, will follow in the footsteps of his older brothers, Ben (12) and Josh (15)—both accomplished soccer players for their age. The older two are my step sons, and though I can’t take any genetic credit for their athleticism, they have been under my roof since ages 2 and 5; I have to think all that time I spent in the goal serving as human soccer ball target in my wheelchair had to have had some positive effect. Noah, who shares mine and his mother’s genes, appears to have the spry coordination of his brothers, although I have observed less of a win-win-win impulse in him than that of his brothers. But we are optimistic; last year in Kindergarten soccer league Noah actually carried the ball down the field on a few occasions and scored!

The whistle sounds and they’re off. This is “beehive” soccer—basically a wad of kids swarming around the ball until one gets enough of a foot on it to break it loose. The hive follows, but where is Noah? Nowhere near the rest of the crowd…is that him spinning around? Now what’s that—handstands?

Noah! Follow the ball! Run to it… come ‘on get in there!

Noah, in cleats, shin guards and Underarmor, happy as a clam, just looks over at me and Elizabeth, smiles and waves, still oblivious to where the ball is or who has it. The other team scores repeatedly.

Noah! Pay attention! Show some intensity!!!

My god—I’ve become my own nemesis: the overbearing, sideline parent!

Long before the arrival of Noah, before we knew for sure if Josh would become a Jock or a Harry Potter bookworm (with Ben, the younger there was no doubt—he was rattling off Uconn player stats at age five), I had always said it didn’t matter if any of them became the captain of the Football Team or the captain of the Chess Team. As long as they were happy and fulfilled doing a safe, healthy activity they truly cherish. The same, of course goes for little Noah, six years the junior of his next brother in line.

But nowadays, things are different; we have a history, over ten years of rearing Josh and Ben into High School and Junior High—and it’s mostly all about sports. Little League, Premier Soccer, AAU Basketball, Junior USTA Tennis, Noah spending most of the weekend time of his first six years being dragged to this sporting event or that. Most of the grown-up acquaintances we’ve established over the years have been by default with parents of kids on the same sports teams. And though we share more than just sports-related interests with many of them, as their attention now turns to Noah, I can’t help but feel that a certain expectation has been set—will Noah be able to fill the enormous size twelve Adidas cleats of his two older brothers?

That Noah is the miraculous natural child sprung from mine and Elizabeth’s loins adds a certain unexpected spice to the mix; in that sense the old step parenting stigmata that dogged me when Josh and Ben were young now returns. Only this time it’s not me being compared against other natural parents; it’s Noah against his older brothers—my genes vs. their father’s. If Noah becomes a master of Lego Robotics at age ten rather than a prodigious, goal-producing striker on the soccer field, will that prove that mine just aren’t athletic enough? Would that all but seal the perception that my only contribution toward Josh and Ben’s athletic prowess is nothing more than shelling out for the team dues, registration fees and car rides shuttling them back and forth to practices and games? It doesn’t help that I’m confined to a wheelchair, either; I’m not exactly a ubiquitous, hands-on parental presence on the practice field, like the other Alpha Dads.

Or, is it far simpler: Have I finally succumbed to the inexorable pull that organized kid sports have on adults, where my fickle desire to see them win trumps any true desire of their own?

Two Saturday’s later, our coach has since quit, along with the only second-grader on the team, and we have yet to even score a single goal, let alone win an actual game. But in some ways, these past two humble weeks have been extremely eye-opening for me; as President Obama might say, a “learning moment”.

As I hand Noah his water bottle and help him double-knot his cleats before sending him onto Field Number Three I say: “Noah, I don’t care if your team wins or loses. As long as you have fun and try your best, I will always be proud of you.” He stops for a moment and ponders; then his face broadens with a wide smile.

“Thanks Dad.” He leans his head in to touch mine as I give the laces a final pull, and then, in a second he’s gone. But for me this moment has, and will be the highlight of this entire soccer season.

On the field today he may continue to pick dandelions, perfect his forward summersault, or even surprise us with a few good touches on the ball. As long as he’s smiling, that’s all that really matters.