Yesterday, I saw a dad yelling at his son to clean up all the balls they’d hit on the baseball diamond and then lock up the field so he (the dad) could go meet up with some buddies at a bar, and the the sone should come find him later. The son was maybe 12 years old, and his body language indicated a resignation to this routine.

My heart sank. I wanted to say something the kid… some words of support or just to let him know that his dad’s anger had little to do with anything the son was responsible for.

Sports are supposed to be fun. Practicing alone on a Friday afternoon is supposed to be a sweet father-son bonding activity. This was…not that.

I know this story is only barely related to yours, except that, in the end, I muttered the following under my breath as I walked away, which may be helpful to you, “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”