Orange slices and Capri Suns.
A hot day in the sun was synonymous with the soccer field, the baseball diamond, and schlepping from one park to another, changing uniforms in the back seat of our Ford Taurus Wagon.
Youth sports were a cornerstone of my childhood, and looking back, I have the fondest memories of competing.
There’s a very specific kind of humility that comes from standing on the sidelines of a youth sports game, in my adult years, and realizing I am not the one going for the win.
I grew up competitive. I loved the pressure and the adrenaline that came along with competition in sports. I was the athlete who wanted the ball in the final seconds, or to pitch the final strike and end the game in victory for my team. I thrived on the intensity of all the sports I played and just assumed I’d quietly pass that mindset down to my kids and then calmly observe from a folding chair. If only it were that easy for me.
I have had to take an active role in realigning my mindset and expectations with every youth sporting event we attend.
I have to remind myself, this isn’t varsity-level play. This is not about collegiate athletes giving their blood, sweat, and tears to something they hope will be a lifelong career.
These are nine-year-olds.
They forget which basket they are shooting on, what plays they are running, and get the giggles in the middle of a close game. Meanwhile, I am white-knuckling my seat, and my cortisol levels are spiking through the roof! I often have to remind myself of my competitive edge to take a back seat, that they are just kids who are still learning the basics of their sport.
I yell from the sidelines.
I won’t pretend I don’t. I’ve shouted “Hands up!” and “Move your feet!” and “DEFENSE!” with a little too much urgency in my voice. There have been moments when I’ve felt my whole body lean into the game as I could somehow will a better outcome. I do yell in celebration and to cheer on the girls as they play, but I find it near impossible to sit and watch a game without feeling totally engaged and on the edge of the bleachers.
And that’s where the real struggle lies for me, knowing when to speak and when to stay quiet. (Though, let’s be honest, I am never quiet.)
As much as I want to coach from the sidelines, encouraging aggressive drives to the basket and big defense to block their shots, I know they need space to learn on their own. They need the freedom to make mistakes without hearing my immediate feedback echoing from the stands. They need to feel what it’s like to misjudge a pass, to miss a shot, and to lose a game.
Growth doesn’t happen because I yell the right instruction at the right time. Growth happens when they experience the moment themselves.
It’s sometimes painful to watch. It’s uncomfortable to sit in the tension of a close game and not feel like helping from the sidelines will benefit the team. But that discomfort is part of my own transition from athlete to parent of little athletes.
When I was the one on the field, the outcome felt personal. Now, I am trying to remind myself that the outcome matters less than the process. I’m learning to shift my focus from performance to progress. Did they hustle? Did they communicate? Did they get back up after falling? Did they support their teammates?
And when the answer to all of that is yes, I need to remember that is the win.
As hard as it is to silence my competitive instincts, it is equally rewarding to watch my daughters fall in love with a sport the way I once did. Seeing them light up after a great play or making a shot is all I can ask for. The improvements they make week to week are astounding, and I know in time it will all come together and they will be unstoppable.
