Sports- Competing with your children

As I've posted earlier, I love sports and frequently play with my children. This, in itself, is very admirable. I frequently receive l smiles from people who pass me while I play baseball catch with my boys. The people's smiles say "how nice! I remember playing with my dad (or my kids." I get similar smiles when people see me playing tennis with my boys or whiffle ball. Would they smile if they got a closer look at my athletic encounters with my sons? What is the potentially unsavory underbelly of the Norman Rockwell-esque scenes of my playing sports with my boys? My competitive side (which I usually keep well hidden). For example, whenever I play basketball with my boys, I, of course, let them win. Even though I make this decidedly good-parenting choice, there is always an internal struggle. For every time that I give them an extra shot or allow them to foul or let them travel, there is a part of me that is keeping tally of the injustices. When the game is over, and my boys have won, there is an immature part of me that wails, "but, it's not fair! They didn't play by the rules! I should have won!" This is the internal struggle in the mind of the thirty-eight year old father watching his eight and five year old boys rejoice in victory. I wonder if I would receive so many smiles admiring my interaction with my kids if the passersby knew what a struggle it is for me to let my children beat me (keep in mind the children in question are thirty and thirty-three years my junior). Still, I keep on a brave face in public and people appreciate my spending time with my children and never realize the pangs of distress that my losing to them creates. This even permeates my other athletic activities (not just basketball). "That was a terrible throw," my eight year-old will fume as my football pass to him sails over his head. "You need to elevate, man!" I storm back, "I threw it high so it wouldn't be intercepted." The more mature father would probably have responded with, "sorry, pal. I'll make it lower next time." Not me. Not by a long shot. The injustice of my son's words is too great for me to swallow. I mean, taken pass for pass, my throws are far more catchable than his! (deep breathing, reminding myself who's the adult).
Just today, I was playing baseball with him. I threw a ball that went over his head (but not by that much!). "Dad," he bellowed, "terrible throw!." "Hey," I reminded him, the model of maturity, "during a baseball game do batters hit the ball to you!??!?? Or do you have to MOVE YOUR FEET!" Again, very mature, very paternal.
Luckily, my public persona as the nurturing father playing sports with his kids easily survives any scrutiny I receive on the street. People walking by continue to be impressed by the image of a father having a catch with his son. How caring! How lovely! How paternal! (I just hope that my boys keep my secret).