Your child playing lacrosse is an extraordinary thing.

They are running. Competing. Learning how to win without becoming arrogant and how to lose without falling apart. They are discovering teamwork, community, discipline, and the deeply satisfying knowledge that they earned something difficult.

And perhaps most importantly in this strange, increasingly artificial world:

They are not staring at a screen.

For a little while, there are no algorithms feeding them garbage. No social-media comparisons. No endless scrolling. No AI-generated sludge fighting for their attention.

There is only the field, the ball, the stick, their teammates—and the beautiful possibility that they might get a little better today.

That alone is worth celebrating.

But lacrosse offers something more. The game does not end when the whistle blows. A child gets to bring a piece of it home.

The stick.

I have always told my players: the uniform belongs to the team. Wear it properly. Respect it. We will look like one unit.

But the stick?

The stick is yours.

Color it. String it. Tape it. Design it. Make it an extension of yourself.

With that stick, a child can spend an afternoon trying to hit the same brick on a wall. They can string a pocket like an engineer, dye a head like an artist, and invent tricks like a skateboarder.

Part athlete. Part artist. Part engineer.

All because of a stick.

Their hands are busy. Their imagination is alive. Their brain is solving problems. They are creating something instead of consuming whatever some algorithm decided to dump in front of them.

And once again:

They are not staring at a screen.

That is an enormous victory.

Get your own stick. Join them. Throw the ball around. Learn how to catch. Be terrible at it. Laugh. That is considerably better than sitting on the couch while the two of you stare silently into separate devices.

Because we cannot lecture children about screen addiction while remaining hopelessly addicted to our own phones.

We have all heard about what excessive screen time and social media can do to a developing brain. Fine. But at what age does staring at a glowing rectangle for hours suddenly become a good idea?

It is bad for the young brain trying to develop. It is certainly not doing the aging brain any favors as it fights to remain sharp. And it is perfectly capable of hollowing out the attention, curiosity, and humanity of everyone in between.

This is not only about protecting our children.

It is about protecting ourselves.

So when you come to a game or attend a practice, put down your phone.

Actually watch.

Your child is out there doing something difficult. They are taking risks. They are making mistakes in public. They are trying again after failing. They are looking toward the sideline—even when they pretend they are not—to see whether you noticed.

Imagine making a great play, turning toward the person you most wanted to impress, and seeing the top of their head as they stare into a phone.

That lands harder than most parents realize.

And your child is not the only one who sees you.

We all see you.

We see you staring into your phone while children compete, coaches teach, officials work, and volunteers give their time to make the experience possible.

I cannot tell you how many times I have wanted to snatch one of those phones and throw it into the nearest river.

Because it is insulting.

It is insulting to your child. It is insulting to the other players. It is insulting to the coaches, officials, volunteers, and parents who worked to put everything together.

And this is not limited to lacrosse.

Constantly scrolling when you are supposed to be a spectator is insulting at any event. A work presentation. A musical performance. An athletic competition.

Someone you supposedly care about worked hard to earn that moment.

The least you can do is look up.

Otherwise, the message is unmistakable:

I drove here. I am physically present. Isn’t that enough? Do I actually have to care about what is happening, too?

Yes.

You do.

Because showing up is not the same as being present.

And spare us the parade of exceptions.

Yeah, but I’m waiting for an important message.

Yeah, but something is happening at work.

Yeah, but I only need to check one thing.

There will always be a “yeah, but.”

That video of a rabbit chasing a puppy will still be there later. So will the list of five magical things you supposedly must do to achieve ultimate glory.

I promise.

And I will make a commitment to you:

I will not be a hypocrite.

You will not see me casually talking, scrolling, or staring at my phone in front of your children—or any children.

Not while I am coaching. Not while I am watching a game, a taekwondo class, or a school performance. Not even while I am eating ice cream with my son.

When a child is sharing a moment with me, the phone goes away.

Children are constantly told to look up, pay attention, and participate in the real world.

And let’s not forget something else:

You are missing something enjoyable, too.

You are missing the great pass. The hard-fought ground ball. All those small victories you recognize only because you have been paying attention—moments that mean absolutely nothing to the rest of the world and everything to you.

You are missing the chance to laugh with the parents beside you—even the parents from the other team.

You are missing real life while watching somebody else’s edited version of it.

The games do not last forever.

Childhood lasts even less.

One day, there will be no practice to watch. No muddy uniform in the back seat. No stick rattling around in the trunk. No child looking toward the sideline, hoping to find your face.

You will have plenty of time for your phone then.

For now, put the damn thing away.

Or go home.

Save your brain. Practice what you preach. Be present. Enjoy the day.