Dear coach, I promise not to be a raving idiot this year

An open letter to the fathers of high school football players, just in time for the start of the 2009 season — please, sign and date it and then mail it to your son's coach:

I, (your name here), promise to behave myself at all times because I don't want my son's memories of his high school football experience to include the time I acted like an idiot in front of neighbors and his teenage peers.

I will run 20 gassers and perform 200 up-downs at high noon in a three-piece suit and Italian loafers if I violate the above promise.

I vow never to use profanity, period. If I am tempted, I will remember there are women and kids present.

I understand that just because I help with paperwork and fund-raisers for the booster club doesn't mean my kid will get more playing time or that I can call plays on Friday night.

I promise never to talk to a coach immediately after a game unless it's to say "nice game," because emotions are high and I might say something stupid.

I understand that the coach will be glad to talk to me about my son provided it is a calm (and occasional) discussion. I will never discuss playing time with him any more than I would discuss promotions and salary with his future boss in the work place.

I realize that I do not know more than the coaches about the abilities of the team or my son. They see them every day in practice.

Like most parents, I believe his mother and I gave birth to a star quarterback, running back or wide receiver, but I recognize that there is a possibility that our genes got crossed up and he's really a lineman or clipboard holder.

I will not poison the attitude of my son or the parents who sit near me in the stands by undermining the coach and blaming everyone else for the team's shortcomings — what would this teach my son?

I will try to remember that coaches are paid a couple thou a year, which works out to about 50 cents an hour, and that the vast majority have the best interests of the kids at heart and are trying to help them.

I will never give the coach a brochure featuring my son's little league stats and a highlight video because everyone gets a fresh start at this level and abilities change dramatically as kids mature.

I promise I will never hire a publicist or hold a press conference no matter how good my son is — who do I think my kid is, Jake Heaps?

I promise never to yell at the coach, whether I'm in the stands or in his face, because I understand that this would embarrass my son, and there's a strong possibility that he would never speak to me again.

I promise not to be a stage dad. I vow to remember the line from the movie "Juno" — "What if these adoptive parents turn out to be, like, evil molesters? Or stage parents!"