Perspective is a funny thing. It can sneak up on you when you least expect it. I recently found it while attending my 4- year-old daughter's soccer game. It was a big moment for me. Please allow me to explain.

Over the years, I have covered hundreds, probably thousands, of sporting events. And while I've always enjoyed the competitions, I have been equally fascinated by the fanfare surrounding the events — especially the behavior of spectators. Whether it is a student cheering section hurling insults at an opposing team, or a belligerent spectator whose sole purpose seems to be to intimidate an official with a vicious critique, I've always found the act of studying the behavior of the fans to be somewhat of a game within the game.

While this study of human nature offers a variety of character flaws, I find nothing more disturbing than the overzealous parent who can at times transform from a spectator to a spectacle right before your eyes.

Many of these parents are walking, talking clichés: the high school heroes trying to revisit their vanished glory years through their kids' athletic endeavors. Others are part of a prototypical power couple, a superficial tandem who demands success from its children as a status symbol rather than an accomplishment.

Then there is perhaps the most dangerous group of athletic groomers — the obsessed parents bent on producing scholarship-worthy athletes, willing to sacrifice their child's childhood in exchange for future financial gain.

Now don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with being passionate about supporting your child's athletic promise. In fact, it is admirable and poignant when parents make an effort to become involved with their child's extracurricular development. And as much as I hesitate to question anyone's motives when enrolling their children in athletics, after attending as many youth sporting events as I have over the years and witnessing some of the abhorrent behavior I've seen from parents, I have accepted the fact that not all parents have their children's best interests in mind, and that has bothered me during my years as a sports writer.

That leads me to my recent revelation. As my daughter began her soccer career earlier this fall, I questioned whether I would be able to maintain my composure on the sidelines. After all, nobody wants to unwillingly become that which he detests, and my ability to stave off the urge to become fanatical was my main objective as I impatiently awaited the first of what I can only hope will be many whistles.

Despite the fact that a soccer game featuring 4-year-olds consists mainly of a pack of confused tykes methodically moving around the field in a manner that resembles a 40-minute rugby scrum, I immediately found myself overwhelmed with an intense feeling of anxiety. I was amazed at the utter helplessness I felt while watching my daughter struggle to come to grips with the fact that nobody was going to simply give her the ball.

Her immediate reaction was predictable: an arms-folded pout, as comical as it was animated. During the first break in the action, my daughter sought my counsel on the sidelines, and the conversation went something like this:

Me: "You're doing great, honey."

Her (still pouting): "No I'm NOT!"

Me: "We'll, just keep trying to kick the ball toward your goal and you'll be fine."

Her: "No I WON'T." Me: "Can you just try for me?"

Her: "Tell them to give me the ball."

Me: "I can't do that, honey. You have to go in there and get it yourself."

Her: "I don't like soccer."

With that, the teams were called back onto the field, and I resumed my position on the sidelines, utterly defeated.

However, that is precisely when it happened. As the referee blew the whistle, I could literally see my daughter building up her confidencewhilewatching comes wisdom

the rolling mob of children from its outskirts. As she analytically observed the path of the ball, seemingly timing the flurrying motion of the 12 little legs simultaneously waving at the ball, she decided to make her move. She adeptly positioned herself in the path of the mob, and when the opportunity arose, lifted her little foot and kicked the ball toward the opposition's goal. Now, she didn't score on this attempt (that came later, for all you college recruiters out there), but the fact that she simply tried to succeed gave me a greater sense of pride than I ever felt in any of my own athletic efforts.

My daughter, of course, was distraught that the ball did not find the net. However, once she saw the reaction that her efforts got from a jubilant group of onlookers (myself, Mommy, Grandpa Bob, both grandmas, the neighbor, the neighbor's kid, her best friend and her baby sister) a smile slowly crept across her face. Soccer, it appears, is not all that bad after all. Once the game ended, and she confirmed that she did like playing soccer, I was amazed and somewhat ashamed with how strongly my emotions got away from me. That is when I started to think about all the crazed parents I've witnessed over the years, and realized that perhaps I was a bit judgmental in my criticism of them.

While there are those parents who unquestionably cross the line of what is acceptable behavior, there are those who are simply displaying more emotion than I am willing to show. In the past, I suppose I never really understood how strong those emotions can be.

I now know the type of dad I'm going to be while supporting my children's athletic careers. I'm going to be the guy who despite battling hurricane-force gusts of emotions on the inside will keep his composure to the best of my ability.

And most importantly, I'll be the guy always trying to put everything that happens on the field in its proper perspective.