Today's topic is sports and kids. First, let's be clear about something: I'm no jock. Didn't play sports as a kid, and except for occasional pickup basketball -- and even less frequent tennis -- don't play much now. Moreover, except where the Orioles are concerned, I'm not even much of a fan. To my mind, the sports world pretty much shuts down sometime in October and resumes in early April. (I hear there was a big football game in Florida the other day, but don't ask me to name any of the players, much less recite their statistics.)

But if your kid has ever slapped on a pair of cleats and shin guards, you are, willing or not, a soccer enthusiast. You might even wake up one day and discover yourself to be an assistant coach, no matter that you're still a bit fuzzy on what constitutes "off sides."

My kids are 15, 12 and 9. There are, believe me, no future Ripkens, Phelpses or Flaccos in the Cross-Barnet household. Nevertheless, I have tried to instill in them, from an early age, an appreciation of the virtues of athletics: good exercise, exposure to the Great Outdoors, the values of teamwork and sportsmanship, healthy competition. (My wife, being even less athletically inclined than I, has graciously ceded this particular aspect of child-rearing.)

The endeavor has had, shall we say, mixed success. My daughter, the eldest, played soccer for six seasons -- at first happily, later on rather more dutifully. So what if she never quite figured out whether she was left- or right-footed? She was able to contribute solidly at midfield, and it was a joy to watch her glide across the grass. Two years ago, she announced that she had had it with soccer. She said she wasn't getting better, and it was no longer fun. But when one door closes ... "Well, why not give basketball a try?" I suggested. After all, she was tall and still growing. And so, for the last two years, we've been a basketball family. Of course, we live in the city and she plays in the county, so it's a bit of a shlep. And it ain't exactly varsity-level play. But everyone has a good time; as a coach, I've learned something about the game; and it sure is fun to watch the team improve and coalesce a bit more each week. Once-wayward passes are smoother. Once-timid teens are willing to take chances with their shots. Sometimes the shots actually go in. Confidence grows.

Our middle child, by contrast, will never be much of a basketball player; while his sister was the tallest girl in her grade school classes, he was the usually the shortest. It's soccer and baseball for him, and what he might lack in raw skill he makes up for in enthusiasm and effort. Every day he gets to play is a good day. This year, he's moving up to the "American League" in Roland Park Baseball, where they use major league rules that allow stealing, tagging up, etc. It's exciting, if a little daunting, for a kid for whom the ability to fire a baseball from third to first has not always been a sure thing. Once the weather cooperates, look for us many an early morning on the parks and playgrounds of North Baltimore, practicing catching, throwing and hitting.

Then there's our youngest and hardest case. One season of soccer at age 6 was, apparently, enough team sports for a lifetime. Baseball? Nope. Basketball? Not a chance? Lacrosse? You gotta be kidding. Well, OK. Team sports aren't for everyone. That's why God invented swimming, right? After two years of taking -- and despising -- swimming lessons, it looks like he won't be threatening to overtake that guy from Rodgers Forge anytime soon. Ditto tennis. Ditto pretty much everything else (unless miniature golf counts as a sport).

And then, last month, we filled up the minivan -- two adults, three offspring, two friends -- and made our way over to the Mount Pleasant skating rink for the first time. The boy was intrigued. He laced up his skates, stepped into the rink and hit the ice -- literally. He got up, fell again, got up again. There were words of encouragement, a few tears. He gave up for a while, then gathered his courage and got back out there. By closing time, an hour later, something had clicked. He wobbled, sure -- but he stayed upright for more than a minute ... without even holding onto the wall! Then came the kicker: On the drive back home, he asked for skating lessons. Could he have found his sport at last? For some people, I guess it just takes time.