Pat Conroy may have been the first to bring the bad parent as a fan phenomena to the forefront. In his novel The Great Santini, Conroy tells the story of a high school basketball star who deals with his hard nosed marine fighter pilot dad whose nickname happens to be Bull.

When your dad's name is Bull, it's probably a good idea to keep him away from any sporting event. Never the less, Bull shows up to one of Ben's games drunk and obnoxious. He makes a complete jerk of himself screaming at referees and players, and eventually gives Ben a direct order to take out another player. It's not a pretty scene, but it is one that plays out almost daily on high school fields and on little league fields, too.

Many temporarily insane Dads have physically attacked referees and coaches whether those coaches are on the opposing team or not. However, most parental fans are good; otherwise some well- meaning politician would have gotten all sports banned in the name of protecting our children a long time ago.

Those crazy dads are out there though. They are generally the ones sitting by themselves or camped out at some corner of the field in isolation. There they are free to scream, and the wives and children don't have to claim them. I don't agree with the super obsessive and destructive behavior of bad dads, but I must admit I'm starting to understand that behavior a little more. I guess one could say I was a closet nut job. There's a tiny little bit of the Great Santini trapped way down in my core and I don't dare let him out for fear of embarrassing my family. They're not as tolerant as Bull's.

How have I come to realize my little problem? My youngest daughter started playing something called academy soccer this season. She's just eight- years- old so even though academy sounds fancy, it's still mostly recreational. However, unlike in a typical recreational league where a bunch of little girls crowd around a soccer ball and push up and down and all around a field like a pack of sharks on a wounded tuna, academy players have positions. They actually pass the ball and have moves. There are real referees and coaches that do much more than baby-sit and herd children. It's impressive, but also

conducive to the Great

Santinis of the world.

My daughter recently suggested I quit watching her soccer practice, because for some reason she did not appreciate all the great advice I was giving her on the way home after practice. I know as much about soccer as I do about cricket or curling, but that didn't stop me from doling out the tips like I was David Beckham or Pelé. My exile from the practice sidelines has made it nearly impossible to inflict my complete lack of soccer knowledge on my daughter, because it's impossible to suggest a correction to something unseen.

She had her first game last weekend. While I wanted to fuss at the poor pimply- faced referee for not calling handballs and offsides (even though I'm not completely sure what that means) and suggest to my petite, second grade daughter that she play more physical against girls twice her size, I stayed occupied taking pictures.

Strangely enough, I had nothing to say after the game, but "Good job!"