I’ve always sworn, I’ll never be THAT parent.

You know, the one at the baseball game/school musical/piano recital who just can’t seem to keep their thoughts to themselves. The one who screams at their kid, either in support and in criticism. The one who, in their own mind, probably sounds completely normal while everyone around them is shooting each other “Who the hell is this guy?” looks.

I’ll never be that parent.

Years before I have a child of my own and plenty more before that child will have any sort of public performance, I’m at my nephew’s football game a few weeks ago and I’m suddenly THAT parent — err, uncle. It only lasts for a moment, an excited, almost unconscious moment, and then I’m back to being my calm-headed self.

A little context: My nephew turns nine tomorrow. This is a shocking statistic to me. It’s shocking because I remember being nine. Nine doesn’t seem all that long ago. There’s no…way…he’s already that old. To me he’s still an infant, a toddler, up and walking then up and running. He’s on his first t-ball team, he has his own room and he’s off to school. But nine? And playing tackle football? It’s almost too much to believe.

I’ve always felt a very close bond with my nephew. I had no younger siblings and when my sister unexpectedly told me she was expecting, there was no plan for a man in the life of her son. So there I was, a senior in high school with this newborn boy who felt something like a stranger, something like a little brother and eventually something like a nephew. We grew up together with one common connection: I was once a little boy and was still enough to remember what was awesome. Namely, sports.

I put a ball in his hand he threw it back. We’ve been doing approximately the same thing for the last eight or so years.

I taught him to put a spiral on a football and where the sweet spot is on a baseball bat. I was away at college while my dad taught him to ride a bike, but during my summer at home, we spent every minute available pitching and catching, hitting and running, ducking and tagging. The thing was, he didn’t care or even need to know that I’m no all-star athlete. I played football until it stopped being fun (seventh grade) and baseball until a few years past its entertainment expiration, unfortunately (high school). For him, it’s always been enough that I knew the rules, knew the fundamentals and was willing to play with him.

I think it’s reasonable to say my first experience watching him play full-contact, pads-hitting-pads football came with some nerves. I was just excited to see him suited up. Yellow pants, power blue jersey, white helmet that made his neck look like it was supporting a bowling ball. It may as well have been.

The first few plays were uneventful. He played running back and outside linebacker, almost exactly the same positions I played at his age. He was fast, always in position, but hesitant to actually make a play — just like I had been. It was a perfect situation, really. I didn’t need to see him excel; I just needed to see him there, playing. I needed to see all of those hours and days and years we’d spent together turned into something.

Suddenly, coming out of halftime, something became something big. He had the ball. He was toward the sideline, bobbling the ball for a moment then adjusting it on his hip. He was turning upfield and heading down the sideline. He was…gone. It happened in what truly was a split second. I was jumping up and down in place, screaming his name. Screaming “Yes!” and “Go!” and I’m sure a few other things I don’t remember. It was the most excited I’ve ever watching any sporting event, live or televised.

He was gone.

He was…almost gone.

One kid I hadn’t seen came from nowhere, dove and tripped him up just a few steps from his first touchdown. I’ve run it through my head 100 times since then. If that kid misses, my nephew scores. His team maybe wins. I can just imagine the beaming smile he would have worn, if only that kid misses. If only that kid misses, my nephew doesn’t lay on the ground after the play for what seems like forever. He doesn’t have his coaches help him to his feet while tears run down his face and he doesn’t spend the rest of the game on the sideline.

If that kid misses, my nephew doesn’t break his collarbone and isn’t in a sling on his 9th birthday.

I’m trying to see the positive in the way it all worked out, since the kid didn’t miss. See, I love that my nephew plays sports because I love the lessons that sports can teach. Team play, hard work, perseverance. What lesson does a 9-year-old learn from a broken collarbone five yards short of a touchdown? Toughness, I suppose — but he’s 9. He could have learned toughness from having the wind knocked out of him.

The best I can come up with at the moment is that I’m the one who learned from this experience. It wasn’t anything new to me, but a reinforcement of something I already thought I knew: I don’t want to be that parent. I don’t want to be that parent because that parent doesn’t leave the yelling at the game or the recital or the school play. That parent puts too much emphasis on sports or on piano or dance or whatever.

One minute, I saw all of the work and practice I had spent with my nephew turned into one of the most exciting moments of my life. The next, the basis of everything we’ve always had in common was hanging in the balance. I considered everything.

What if this causes lifelong pain?

What if he doesn’t want to play sports again?

Those first two are extreme, I know, but the thought of them broke my heart. I guess you just never want to see a loved one forced into anything. If he never wants to play football again, I can’t say I blame him. It might even relieve me a little. But as long as he has a choice, that’s enough for me.

Now, I just want one thing: I want that damn kid to miss the tackle so I can see a touchdown.

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