Out-of-control parents, suck on a cinnamon roll

Date published: 7/18/2008

M Y 6-YEAR-OLD stepson will fulfill his lifelong dream of playing football this fall.

He passed a rigorous qualification process by standing still long enough for a league volunteer to measure him for a uniform.

The bar for league parents is set a bit higher, however.

First, we had to prove he was only 6, not some pint-size retired NFL pro looking to relive his glory days on the backs of unsuspecting first-graders.

I offered as evidence his slick Power Rangers wardrobe and his pronunciation of the word "thwootball." They insisted on an original birth certificate and a DMV-issued ID card.

Next, my husband had to sign a two-page parental code of conduct, pledging that, among other things, he would leave air horns and cowbells at home and never refer to an opponent's field as "OUR HOUSE." Apparently, saying it in lowercase is OK.

We considered bagging the whole thing--we're very attached to our cowbells.

But in the interest of the boy's athletic development and for the chance to see him knock someone other than his sister to the ground, we acquiesced.

I'm reasonably certain there was no such policy at the Little League fields where I grew up.

Parents there routinely shrieked, hollered and gestured wildly at coaches, umps and players. And that was just during the national anthem.

Once the game started, parents often adopted an anything-goes attitude, hurling verbal abuse, chicken wings or Slurpees--whatever was handy--at the offending uniform.

This was in the '80s, and we were a tougher breed of kid then. We didn't wear helmets when we rode our bikes, and a "child safety seat" consisted of a lap belt inside the car rather than in the bed of the pickup.

Putting lead toys in your mouth built character, and wearing flammable pajamas was no big deal. If they caught fire, you simply stopped, dropped, rolled and went about your business.

"Sideline rage" wasn't a syndrome. It was what your parents did while you scrimmaged or ran the bases. It's not like they had iPods or BlackBerries to keep themselves occupied.

They also didn't have Cinnabon. That's right, Cinnabon, today's antidote for crazed, unsportsmanlike parents who rage along the sidelines, fists aloft, hair awry, mouths afoam.

An article in the latest Newsweek reports that "agreeable scents" seem to encourage good behavior.

One New York psychologist found that people in fragrant locations, like Cinnabon and Coffee Beanery, were more likely to loan a stranger change or help him retrieve a dropped pen.

Such is the bewitching power of the Cinnabon that one need only inhale its sweet aroma before clasping the hand of a stranger, skipping off into a field of fragrant wildflowers and declaring one's undying love for humankind--or at least loaning the nearest member of humankind a quarter.

Imagine the practical applications of such research. Think of the drop in violence that would likely result from piping Cinnabon vapors into prisons, bars, hockey rinks and the Staples Center.

Think of the bipartisan progress Congress would make if the House and Senate constantly smelled of fresh-baked brownies.

Or the peace and harmony that would descend upon youth athletic contests if keyed-up parents were subjected to the aroma of hot peanut-butter cookies rather than sweat socks and heat-lamp hot dogs.

There'd be no need for a code of conduct.

Parents would be too busy salivating and celebrating their fellow man to issue death threats to referees, curse at coaches or subject opponents to poorly tuned air horns.

Rather, under the aromatic influence of the Cinnabon theory, they'd play their cowbells as a joyful tribute to the triumph of humanity.

Edie Gross: 540/374-5428
Email: egross@freelancestar.com

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Date published: 7/18/2008