Are these men and women raising the next sporting demigods? Or are they just good at shouting and adding water to brownie mix?.

If only one in a million children will grow up to be a professional athlete, why do today’s overworked parents carve up their limited leisure time to ferry children to (and watch them be humiliated at) the endless sporting events that youth throws their way? It could be for noble reasons: they love their children. Or maybe they want them to learn life lessons about teamwork and competition, both things still considered far more important than, say, knowing basic HTML. Whatever the reason, no one warns first-time parents that they aren’t just signing up their child for Little League Baseball, Junior Rugby League, Pop Warner Football or PeeWee Hockey; they are consigning themselves to be part of a tribe – Sideline Parents. Here’s how to recognise the various delightful people who populate this colourful cabal – the denizens of a world in which everyone gets a trophy, and there are no losers.

His eyes are bloodshot and his mini-van smells like a three-day-old gym bag, thanks to “my four little rug rats”. Taking them ice skating had seemed like a charming idea, back in the noughties. But now that his six-, nine- and 12-year-old boys are all playing on travel hockey teams, his weekend is spent crisscrossing the county line and his mantra has become TGIM (Thank God It’s Monday). He is a kind-hearted man – unwilling to tell his boys that they have as much chance of skating in the National Hockey League as his daughter does of becoming a “unicorn veterinarian”. So he awakens at 4.30am every Saturday morning and may not return home until 9pm on Sunday. In-between are several hours of standing in an arena cooled to the temperature of sushi-grade tuna, constantly looking over his shoulder wondering which of his fellow parent-spectators may be ready to take a poke at him. It is tough to say which is more frayed – his hands from lacing skates, or his nerves from yelling, “If you can’t get your damn equipment on, you can’t play the game!”

Her husky son may be the weakest athlete on the team, but if she arrives with a bucket of munchies for the squad, perhaps he will be spared the fate of Piggy in Lord of the Flies. The plan works brilliantly – for the first game – until an unforeseen nemesis arises. By the time her fellow parents arrive home from the game, an email blast (subject line: White sugar = the devil) has been sent out by Gluten-Free Mum. After citing the latest medical literature, the email will recount a harrowing near-death trip to the emergency room that occurred after her child ate something non-organic at a birthday party. The sign-off – “This is a nut-free league!!!” – is clearly not a reference to Gluten-Free Mum’s mental state. Chastened, The Feeder returns with orange slices and joins her son as a fellow outcast.

You’ll find him in the top of the stands, often with a canvas tote bag brimming with paperwork and the Financial Times. He stands out because he is actually dressed like an adult – Oxford shirt, V-neck sweater, tortoiseshell glasses and driving moccasins. This isn’t his first time at the rodeo. Having been through it all before with the children from his first wife, he is generally an unflappable presence, until some well-meaning person actually demands that he watch the game. “Hey, Pops, your granddaughter is about to come in off the bench,” is the sort of remark that wakes him from contemplating his next stock trade. On account of his vigorous schedule of business travel, he is often away – which is fine with the other dads, who prefer it when his new, pneumatically enhanced trophy wife appears on the sideline wearing their child’s shrunken jersey from last season.

When one grows up in the country formerly known as The People’s Republic of Upper Slobbovia, being excellent at sports means an opportunity to better oneself (or at least eat protein once a month). Even though he is now thriving in a free-market democracy, losing unleashes a flood of repressed and painful memories. All is well if his son’s team is winning, but if a pass is bungled, he will begin muttering ominous-sounding phrases in his mother tongue. If the team falls behind, no child is safe. “Get the spasmodic out of the goal” is a mere verbal apéritif. Pity the brave parent who tries to reason with him by pointing out that “these children are four… it’s just a game”.  This will only incite him to shove them and then stand behind the goal hurling expletives at any and all comers.

This former college athlete, let’s call him Chad, is not content to merely watch his preternaturally athletic child play his game. “I need my exercise too,” Chad remarks as he dismounts from his $10,000 mountain bike and parades up and down the sidelines in his compression tights. After swinging his arms around and engaging in yoga poses, he heads off to jog a few laps around the field. While this should be enough exercise for any respectable adult who holds down a real job, he is just getting going. “Who needs a gym when you’ve got a park bench?” he says before embarking on a series of military CrossFit manoeuvres. At the game’s end, he is first on the field to scrimmage with the kids (or clean-jerk any of their ranks who get in his way). He is also the cause of numerous husband-and-wife rows on the ride home after Mum says, “Chad’s in really good shape. Maybe he could give you a few tips?”