When I was a junior in high school, my Orange Parent Super Dad and I were watching Syracuse and Johns Hopkins compete for the 1989 Lacrosse National Championship. Feeling snarky, I started making fun of the lack of moral standing and intellectual ability on the opposing team. “Actually, Shari, Johns Hopkins is a very well respected school. I don’t think you could get in,” Dad stated innocently.
Oh, Dad. Had you ever met a 17-year-old before? Even though you were the greatest Syracuse family man ever, if you pose a challenge like that to a teenager, they will do anything in their power to prove you wrong.
Now, I could tell you stories about how I put up a Syracuse poster in my dorm room only to have it stolen by the lacrosse players from across the hall on the night before the 1991 JHU-SU game. Or about how my swim coach at Hopkins (a Carolina grad, himself) managed to mention certain recruiting violations to me every single day of the 1993 basketball tournament. Or even about how I got a fake ID for the sole purpose of getting into a bar with satellite TV in order to see a few extra Syracuse football and basketball games.
But none of that will matter to you because I have the mark of the Blue Jay on my forehead now, right?
I’m going to try to make things right, though. Although my years at Hopkins undergrad and grad schools did change my lacrosse allegiance, I recognize that my dad made a mistake. I will not make that mistake with my Little Oranges. I am leaving their lacrosse education to their Daddy, who you may remember, I taught to love the Orange. My girls will be pure Oranges, and I will just be the hated enemy for one weekend every year.
Though this confession I’ve just made is only loosely an “Orange Parenting” advice column, I write it to explain why you will have a guest writer next week. Paul will be taking over because of the Syracuse at Hopkins lacrosse game on March 17, and I’ll be back the following week with my Little Oranges and some March Madness. Here’s hoping some of you will still read my work.