Athletics overwhelm intellect at sporting events. Emotion trumps reason. Watch sometime. But don't watch professionals. Watch the ball fields or courts in your town. People lose perspective. Baseball is a love of mine. I'm not a statistician. I rarely watch games on TV. I don't even read the sports page unless my kids are in it. What I love is athletic performance. Being on the field. The adrenaline behind the dive. The contest with the pitcher. The magic feel of a well-hit ball-no sting, no quiver, almost no feeling at all.

Both my children inherited that love. Emily, this year, will add her fourth letter in softball. Charlie, now 15, will play high school baseball this spring.

We come from a long line of ballplayers. My grandfather and my mother taught love of athletics, taught the real meaning of sports. Sports are a celebration of life, joy, accomplishment, competition, camaraderie. Don't buy the modern lie. Sports are not about winning.

The only time I heard my grandfather swear was at my mention of Vince Lombardi's quote. My grandfather told me sternly, "Winning is not everything. Lombardi's playing for the camera and trying to make a larger point on determination, lost on most people."

My grandfather was legendary himself, though on a smaller scale than Lombardi. He's in the NAIA Hall of Fame as coach and played three college sports as well. He knew his subject matter from both perspectives. After his death, his players would mention his influence on their lives, not on their games.

With that past as prologue, I immediately knew my mistake when I let Charlie join a tournament team at 11. He'd been "scouted." To understand that, you'd have to see him play. Charlie's driven to dive, chase and catch beyond reason. He makes me proud but careful, careful not to live my fantasies through him.

"There's no crying in baseball," he joked to me after his first practice, quoting Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own. Charlie said so in jest, but there, barely under the surface, was an astute observation: some parents and coaches humiliate children into performance. It's a losing strategy even on a winning team.

During that awful winning season, he and I would survey the infield. We'd find a pouting kid playing first, struggling to decide: should he try or not? How angry would his dad get? On second, a small kid literally quaked. The shortstop, whose bullying was an inheritance, sullenly hid tears, or not. On the mound an 11-year-old already threw hard at batters. If he gave up a run, back in the dugout he'd shriek hateful things at his father and cry.

So Charlie wouldn't learn to quit, I made him stay for the spring season. Then I found him a new team with a coach who shared my philosophy, a man who stressed winning was important but kids were more important still.

On this same team 3 years later on the metal ping of the bat, Charlie broke back to the right, sprinting 15 yards deep. The ball spun 20 feet over third, swiftly falling inside the baseline, sure to score the runner. Except Charlie, the acrobat of the infield, never understood can't. Body perfectly parallel to earth, glove arm completely outstretched backhand, Charlie caught that fly inches off the ground, slid across the baseline, popped up and doubled the runner at third.

Plays like that hush a crowd just prior to applause. When that applause comes, watch the coaches on the opposing team. If they look spitefully at the athlete who robbed them, beware. If they praise the opposing player, know they appreciate plays and players over wins and losses.

The choice is yours.

Chuck Lay, executive editor