LESSON #8: Being supportive requires interactive participation

The family attends Jason's first professional game.

At 65, my father cannot get enough of talent competitions shows. ‘The Voice’, ‘X-Factor’, ‘Australia’s Got Talent’, ‘American Idol’… name it, and chances are he’s already asked my brother Shawn to season-pass the series for him. On any given night of the week, the hallways of my parents’ home are filled with the desperate sounds of young wanna-be pop stars. As soon as the show starts, my father is immediate transfixed… he enters an unbreakable trance, his eyes lit with wonder. I have no doubt that, if the house erupted in flames, he’d wait until the commercial break to evacuate the building.

It’s impossible to imagine a bigger fan than my father. Where others may laugh along at the appropriate moments, cry on cue after an emotional rendition of ‘My Heart Will go On’, or sit on the edge of their seats during the climatic moments of an elimination… my father will literally give a standing ovation for a well-enthused vocal performance. Right there in the living room.

“Dad… you don’t have to stand and clap. She can’t see you.”

“Nah… nah…” he’d say, batting away the emotions “what she just did… she deserves this. That was amazing.”

“But this isn’t live. It was taped 14 hours ago in LA.” I’d rebut, as I would inevitably stand and clap with him.

You see, for my father, being supportive has always been an interactive exercise.

As a child, I was an avid swimmer. Actually, it was more than that… from the ages of 8 to 12, swimming competitively was such a big part of my life that it became one of my defining qualities: eldest child, blue eyes, freckles, pale as a polar bear and a swimmer. In my most dedicated and competitive years, I trained up to twice a day (my hair was wet so often, I’m surprised I didn’t develop a mold problem). I loved being a swimmer, and I loved the thrill of competing… but mostly, I loved that my father sat pool-side at every meet cheering me on.

Since I was always an obedient, well-behaved child, I relished the fleeting moments of excitement just before an important race. It was a delicious feeling, that surge of adrenalin pulsating throughout by pre-pubescent body. I’d often be too nervous for small chat with my fellow competitors, always wondering if I had trained enough to beat the girl next to me. That nervous energy would swirl around me right up to those last seconds before the race… right up to the moment I’d see my father in the stands: the one adult amongst a sea of parents, standing. Even if I didn’t think I was capable of winning, I knew he thought I was. My beacon of encouragement. 

Usually, swimmers can’t hear cheering while racing, but I always swore I could hear my father…. his loud voice rising against the call of the crowd, fighting its way through the water in my ears. Whenever I finished a race, before I’d even look at the scoreboard, I’d glance up at him. And there he’d be… red faced from cheering, a smile across his face, clapping enthusiastically. What my daughter just did… she deserves this. That was amazing.

The family’s swimming tradition stopped after my brothers decided to trade the swimming pool for a basketball court. Basketball simply made the most sense to them. Not only was it theatrical, it was hands-down the most logical sport for a family of boys who were all destined to grow taller that 6’3”.

Being the eldest of the three sons, Shawn was the first to spearhead the Aucoin basketball legacy. He dove into the sport with ferocity. He studied his NBA idols, bought the appropriate Nike clothing, and practiced his ball skills every waking hour. By his early teens, Shawn had somehow developed such a unique shooting style that every basket he attempted to make always looked like an air ball… until it wasn’t. Nothing but net. Every. Single. Time.

“WHAAAT??!? Look at that! How did he do that??!” my father would cheer court-side, marveling at the miracle that just happened.

By the end of the game, whether Shawn’s team had won or lost, my father would be standing… red faced from cheering, a smile across his face, clapping enthusiastically. What my son just did… he deserves this. That was amazing.

As fate would have it, my brother Jason possessed an extraordinary amount of dexterity for basketball; a natural, almost instinctual, talent for the sport. Even at a young age, it was apparent that being a basketball player would soon become his most obvious defining trait. His second most defining trait? The father who stood cheering court-side at every game.

Eventually, Jason was drafted to a semi-professional league. Though Jason didn’t get paid in those early days, spectators were charged a nominal $5 to watch the games. It was a fee my father would have paid 10x over if he had to, he was that excited to watch his son play center court in a stadium. Fee-paying spectators who weren’t familiar with my father’s cheering style would often try to move to quieter parts of the stadium. I always mused that my father seemed immune to their annoyance. There he’d stand when the 4^th quarter buzzer rang, in an almost empty section of the stadium… red faced from cheering, a smile across his face, clapping enthusiastically. What my son just did… he deserves this. That was amazing.

Eventually, my father was offered a job to commentate the home games… a lame attempt by organisers to focus his energy and manage his enthusiasm. With a microphone in hand, my father tried his best to keep any screaming to a minimum, as was requested. Most of the time, he succeeded. He’d calmly call-out fouls, plays, substitutions… all the regular commentary you’d expect at a game. But when something spectacular happened – particularly if it involved his son – he’d simply yell whatever word first popped into his head. Most of the time, he’d cheer using traditional excitables like “yes!” or “yeehaw!”. But sometimes, in the most magical of commentary moments, he’d blab some indecipherable word that would have even the players stop mid-play trying to figure out what was just echoed throughout the stadium. To this day, Ryan and I swear we heard our father scream “baba ghanoush!” after a particularly impressive 3-point shot. 

It is no coincidence that my father’s cheering reached an entire new level of extremism when Jason starting playing professionally. It was as if he was in some sort of competition with those packed into the giant sport stadium. Vying to be heard, my father would often lose his voice completely by the end of the 1^st quarter. My mother, who usually sat next to him, always had a splitting headache by the end of the 3^rd quarter. And, by the end of the game, both of them would look like they’d just ran a marathon.

Watching my father get so excited, it would be easy to misplace his fanaticism as a die-hard basketball fan. He’s not. Truth be told, he’s not a particularly big swimming fan, or pop music fan either. But there he is, peppered throughout our lives, proving himself to be as invested in our special moments as we were. At one point, I remember feeling that my father only ever cheered when you were good at something. As an adult, I realize that perhaps it was the other way around. Case in point: my brother Ryan’s brief foray into the basketball arena.

Wanting desperately to follow in the successes of his older brothers, Ryan spent days before his first game wearing his new uniform. When he walked onto the court for the first time as the newest member of his under 11’s team in a new pair of Air Jordan basketball shoes, Ryan was immediately fascinated by one unpredicted phenomenon: his new shoes didn’t slide across the court like his old sneakers. No matter how hard he tried, or how fast her ran, the rubber on the bottom of his new shoes would squeakily stop him from sliding. By the time the game started, Ryan was well-and-truly in his own world, intoxicated by this non-slipping paradox. While his teammates started to bounce and pass the ball towards the hoop, Ryan would remain at the other end of the court – running… and coming to a sudden stop… running and stopping; running and stopping – his Justin Bieber-esque hair blowing in the air while he ran and flicking across his face with each halt.

I sat next to my father court-side, as he stood cheering. Sashaying back and forth under the basket, Ryan must have missed at least a dozen ball passes, but that didn’t seem to dampen my father’s support.

“The ball, Ryan! Get the ball!” he’d roar with laughter, genuinely loving the show. Eventually, the other parents joined in and starting enjoying the spectacle for what it was: the unbridled joy of playing to have fun. Elevated basketball. At the end of the game, my father stood red faced from cheering, a smile across his face, clapping enthusiastically. What my son just did… he deserves this. That was amazing.

As soon as the clock ran out on that first game, Ryan looked instinctively over at my father. Just like I used to do. In that moment, my brother received a look from him that made winning or losing seem irrelevant. I recognized that look as the one he gave me after every race. It’s also the same look he has driving back from one of Jason’s games, and after the credits roll on The Voice. His post-cheer look. A look that genuinely says “we’ve just had the time of my life”.