Last week, my son and twin daughters each received either first place or runner-up awards for their fourth and first grade read-a-thons. Sure, they’ve won ribbons and certificates before, but those “awards” were simply for showing up and following directions. These read-a-thon awards were my kids’ first wins for concerted effort in competition. When I heard the news, I was excited, and pressed the kids for details.

And pressed…

And pressed…

“How did it make you feel?” I asked.

“Fine,” they said. (In my memory, my kids often speak collectively.)

“I mean, did they call your names out?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you have to stand up? Was there applause?”

“I think so.”

“Does it make you feel good to know you did so well?” I knew it was a leading question, but at this point I was desperate.

“I guess so.”

I was stunned. It’s not that I needed them to win, but once they did, I wanted them to take some pride in it. Or at least exhibit some thrill in competition. They get more excited about racing shopping carts at Kmart.

Meanwhile, I’m always jockeying for attention, cheer on sports teams from cities I’ve never been to, and root for American Idol contestants every week as if they were family (Go Adam!… ahem.)

I’m not taking parenting tips from George Patton, but the real world is a very competitive place — well-populated with Simon Cowells — and I want my children to be prepared.

My Dad was a top basketball player in his college days. I know this because I used his tarnished trophy bowl to corral my spare change and pocket detritus when I lived in their home. But the lifelong schoolteacher — known during coaching stints as “Howie Basketball” — kept most of his athletic genes to himself. My brother and I were the last kids on the block to ride bikes, the last in camp to float comfortably in water, and the last to cross the finish line in the few local races my Dad optimistically signed us up for.

While reasonably fit, I still can’t dribble a ball without looking down, or swing determinedly at a softball in a way that won’t embarrass me or tear a ligament. Instead, my brother and I fell into competitive speech and debate in the 6th grade, and stuck with it through high school. And if you think teenagers can’t compete in public speaking events with the same cutthroat ferocity that college hoopsters talk trash during March Madness, then, well, consider yourself schooled. We just wore short ties instead of long shorts.

When my kids asked to keep some of my debate trophies in their bedrooms about a year ago, I was ecstatic. I knew they just liked the shininess and sheer weight of these plastic-and-marble talismans, but I also thought some of the hard work I poured into earning those trophies would rub off.

In the end, only the cheap gold plating did.

To be fair, my kids do show plenty of competitive spirit when they’re pitted against each other in the privacy of our home — we can’t seem to play a round of UNO without someone throwing a teary fit. And forget about SORRY.

Maybe their competitive divestment is a good thing. I’d like to see my kids spared the debilitating anxiety and crushing defeats that marked my youth. At nine and six, they can still succeed in public by just showing up and paying attention — for that matter, so can parents — so I’ll give them some time…

At least until next month’s “Battle of the Books”

 

Joel Schwatzberg is a published essayist and author of the forthcoming book “The 40-Year-Old Version: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad”