Coaching Myself to Be A Good Parent

As the air turns much more crisp, and the days start to get shorter, I sometimes have vivid dreams late at night of coaching again, as I did for 15 years. I am in a gym, in a dugout, on a bus, and I am sometimes driving or playing with a dry erase board. I am dressed in a polo and shorts and a cap, or I am in a sweater vest with shiny shoes. Sometimes I have the feeling of being like Tom Landry, and I have channelled the wonderful-at-cursing coach from Bull Durham. I never get to finish a game, and there is more often than not no scoreboard. There is always a yelling crowd, and I can always feel piercing stares and burning eyes from parents, and this makes me itchy, and I make myself wake up. (I have that skill not often enough.)
Then, I go to a soccer game for one of the kids, and I set my chair up, get them squared away, and I proceed to stare at the back of a parent coaching from the opposite sidelines of the real coach. He is in anguish, yearning to run on the field. Another parent put an umbrella up, which inadvertently blocks the view of all others from about 20 percent of the field. There are equal amounts of imploring Juan and Tanner in Spanish and English to pass or run harder. It is passion, and then one of the boys has a ball kicked into his gut, and he goes down in pain. The response from the other team is to encourage their sons to run past and around the boy, now writhing on the ground, and it becomes something twisted.
And, I am taken back to nights of confrontation after wins by parents whose children didn't play "enough" outside of lockerrooms, in parking lots, getting on the bus. I can remember every moment of long, uncomfortable conferences, as playing time was hashed over, and childhood accomplishments were lauded as proof of my ignorance or lack of judgement. "T Ball Champion" of 1994 had a quest of being an Olympian, and I was in the way. Practice habits were discounted, reality of talent is an oblivious subject that inflames, and other children are doggedly drug in, despite repeated reminders, that privacy and respect must be maintained. I recall clearly screams from the stands, muttering in the workplace from teacher parents, a morning when a parent miffed at junior high playing time came to my home one early Saturday morning and scared Amy with a knock on the door. Crank phone calls, cold stares, Amy getting bumped while plregnant at a playoff game by a respected civil servant lady. My children heard things they didn't understand while playing in the grass, and my parents who patiently made sacrifices out in the cold heard condescension and criticism.
So, as I added my own children, I began to ease out of coaching to the position of counselor to spend more time with those I loved and was missing seeing grow, as I got weary and wounded to the point of exhaustion. A thought germinating was brought to life by a couple of parents who got a hold of  the ear of a weasel of an athletic director who liked to look at himself but not you in his office mirrors, and I was demoted my last year. My obsession was not enough, my desire too temperate, and I didn't like to play a political game and break bread and drink a few beers with John and Sam and Bob. It was really a blessing to be pushed the direction I was going a little more firmly, that of a parent in the stands. The hottest day on record that last game in May made the air that much sweeter on the charter bus.
And, so the question, becomes, what kind of parent am I now in the stands? I get anxious, angry, frustrated, excited, thrilled, exultant and morose. I cheer hustle, heart, gusto, and I concentrate on the demeanor and attention of my kids when their coach speaks. They get rebuked for not showing appropriate respect for teammates, for not being into games. We have quiet talks about what can be done different or better. I try to ask the most important question of all: did you have fun? 
After most games, I make sure that the chair is packed, that we have snacks, that we have what we need to head home, and I don't look back at the field or gym. On days or nights like that, what awaits me, if I am lucky, when I sleep is a deep and dreamless slumber.