Today, I am very excited to share my book cover and an excerpt from my book. I am in the final stages of production and will be announcing a sale date soon.

Why this cover?

I began working with my daughter, who is a graphic designer, on the cover concept last fall and after weighing the pros and cons of several options, I kept coming back to this one. The gym reminds me of the one I played in. The bleachers remind me of the top row where my brothers and I sat with our mom, watching our dad coach. And though the basketball has gone still, the lessons learned from the sport continue to guide my life.

Why share my story?

It has been both overwhelming and exciting to review the hard copy proof of my book. It’s not easy for an introvert to share so much personal information. But that is what makes my book different from those by sports professionals and health care providers who have written about the need to reinvent youth sports.

The statistic that keeps me writing, keeps me caring about youth sports at this point of my life, is that today 70% of kids quit playing before they get to high school. To me, that’s good indication that something is amiss in our youth sports system. My goal is to prompt parents of young kids and youth coaches to think more carefully about why kids play and make good choices for where and when they do.

Why this title?

The title seems like the obvious choice to me now, but it took me a couple of years to settle on “50 Years in the Bleachers,” after filling many notebook pages with variations of titles and subtitles. In the book, I share my experiences as I observed the evolution of youth sports over five decades, beginning at age nine as a coach’s daughter. From my seat in the bleachers as a coach’s wife and later, as a sports parent, I watched as the expectations of youth sports on players and coaches impacted the values and benefits of playing—not always in a good way. But it is my fourth role of being one of the first girls who had the privilege of playing basketball for my high school that led to my subtitle, “What modern sports parents can learn from a Title IX pioneer.”

My story and my point of view are strongly rooted in my experience as a player—a girl who was unlikely to play any sports, but because Title IX gave her the chance to play basketball, a girl who gained benefits that have lasted a lifetime.

I hope you’ll join me in the bleachers, and in the discussion of youth sports. I appreciate your support as a blog subscriber. To thank you, here’s a little bit of my story from the first chapter, The Pioneer.

Where it began

The bleachers in the Lena-Winslow High School gym were packed for every game, but our family had seats in the top row of the reserved section. Dad had requested them so Mom could have the wall as a backrest, but they also kept my brothers and me corralled. I was nine, Patrick was six, and Daniel was almost four when Dad became the varsity boys’ basketball coach. Two years later, baby Michael joined us.

It was the early 1970s and boys’ high school sports gave people in our tight-knit northwestern Illinois communities something to look forward to and talk about. Schools provided student fan buses to away games, and many adults, not just parents, religiously drove to rival schools to support their teams. It was way too much work for Mom to take four little kids to an away game, so she’d make popcorn and we’d listen on the radio, but it just wasn’t the same as being there.

Oh, how I loved home games. Having only one car, we’d head to the high school with Dad well before game time and leave our coats in the teachers’ lounge, a mysterious place where students weren’t allowed and where cigarette butts, ink from the mimeograph machine, and empty soda bottles created a bizarre cocktail of scents. Mom would then shepherd us down the hall, into the gym, and up to our perched view of the court.

We would arrive in plenty of time for the warm-ups, which meant we got to enjoy the pep band playing Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4” and themes from TV shows like Hawaii Five-0 and Hogan’s Heroes. One of my favorite warm-up songs was “The Horse,” an instrumental by Cliff Nobles & Co. that fired up the players and fans, as well as the band. The blare of the horns and thump of the drums stirred anticipation in my chest until the playing of the school song and national anthem signaled we were close to tip-off. As the boys gathered around the bench for the starting lineups, I’d watch Dad give last-minute instructions, reminding them of their assignments based on his scouting report.

From the moment of tip-off, my eyes would be glued to the action. I’d wish the ball into the basket when the score was tight and cross my fingers when our team shot free throws. It took me a while to figure out why players from both teams ran to the opposite end of the court rather than shoot at the nearest basket. But with every game I learned something about the rules and the skills required to play the sport our life revolved around four months of the year. I knew all the boys’ names. I began to notice who could shoot from the outside and who would earn Dad’s praise for “crashing the boards” or playing “tenacious” defense.

Cued by the halftime buzzer, the smell of popcorn would begin wafting from the cafeteria into the gym, and I’d ask Mom if I could get a Pepsi. The hot gym made me thirsty, and this was my chance to be independent and get away from my brothers, if only for a few minutes. She’d nod, holding Michael on her slender hip, standing between Pat and Dan to keep the peace as she swayed and hummed­ along with the band’s rendition of her favorite song, “Sweet Caroline.”

I’d then hurry to the cafeteria where the air was thick with cigarette smoke and coaching critiques. Men nodded and smiled at me mid-sentence; I was too young to understand that, depending on the night, the discussion may have been about whether my father should stay or go as head coach.

  I’d quickly drink my Pepsi, drawn from a portable fountain and served in a four-ounce paper cup, then head back to my seat to watch the pom-pom girls. I loved the band but looked forward to the day I could participate in the excitement by dancing with the pom-pom girls. After their performance, the boys would return to the court and we would settle in for the second half, cheering for the Panthers, win or lose.

After the game we’d wait impatiently for Dad to finish his duties and see the last boy off for the night. Once home, Dad would let me look at the scorebook. I loved how the neatly written twos and circles with an “x” through them added up perfectly across columns and down rows to tell the game’s story.

By the time I was in eighth grade, I knew the game better than most boys my age. But there was no reason to dream of playing.