The Gift of the Game: Keeping Lacrosse Players Grounded When the World Feels Like It’s Burning

Let me tell you something about being young, strong, and pissed off.

You don’t know it’s a gift. Not yet. Not when your legs are fresh, your shoulder’s still intact, and your only real worry is who’s not sliding when they should. You think pain is the coach’s fault. You think the ref’s blind. You think the world’s conspiring against your stat line.

And that’s okay. That’s the nature of it. That’s what being a teenager is—rage and confusion duct-taped to ambition. But someone’s got to remind you: just being on the field is the miracle.

Health is fleeting. Freedom is fragile. Ability is a privilege, not a guarantee.

The Wake-Up Call No One Wants

Most of us don’t figure this out until it’s gone. Until the MRI shows something frayed. Until your ankle rolls on a Tuesday and you’re on crutches Wednesday. Until the college dream dies in the second quarter of a meaningless scrimmage.

Then, and only then, does it hit:
I’d give anything just to run again.
Just to play again.
Just to do this thing I used to bitch about.

And by then, it’s too late.

So how do you, the coach, the mentor, the slightly-broken grown-up with a clipboard, get them to see it now—before it’s taken from them?

How do you keep your team grounded when they’re whining about playing time, barking at officials, or sulking because the wind caught their bounce shot?

You do it by telling them the truth.

Truth Hurts—So Say It Anyway

Tell them about the kid who never got his senior year because he caught a shoulder in the wrong spot.
Tell them about the guy who couldn’t lift his arm above his head after his second labrum tear.
Tell them about the ones you’ve coached, seen, loved—who would kill to wear a helmet again, just for one more shift.

Don’t get preachy. Don’t turn it into some fake after-school special. Just tell the truth.

That’s all they need. The raw, honest, uncomfortable truth.

Because here’s what they don’t see: this isn’t normal. Playing a sport this beautiful, this violent, this poetic—it’s not their right. It’s a stroke of fortune. A twist of fate. A moment of time they will never get back.

And when frustration rears its head—when they scream about refs, sulk about subs, or bitch about the weather—you hold up the mirror and say: “You’re here. You’re healthy. You’re free. That’s more than most people get.”

Call It Out—But Don’t Shame It

Now, grounding a team doesn’t mean shaming them. That’s cheap. That’s lazy. You don’t embarrass a kid for getting lost in the heat of battle.

You just steer them back.

When tempers flare, call timeout. Not for strategy—for perspective. Pull them together and remind them what this is. A game. A gift. A moment in time they’ll wish they could bottle when they’re 40, stiff, and watching from the bleachers.

Say it clear. Say it without frills.

“You’re lucky to be here. Don’t forget that.”

And then let it hang in the air.

That’s leadership. Not screaming. Not punishment. Perspective.

Tell Them About the Real World

Most of your players think the world ends at the white lines. That the biggest injustice they’ll face is not getting a clear through X.

You want to ground them? Give them a window into the real world.

Tell them about the kid their age who’s working two jobs instead of playing. The one who never got to try lacrosse because he had to raise his little brother. Tell them about the kids with cancer, with wheelchairs, with oxygen tanks and feeding tubes.

You don’t have to go heavy-handed. Just remind them—gently, occasionally—that pain exists outside the turf. That frustration is universal. That they’re not the only ones suffering.

And that they have something sacred: a team, a body that works, and a chance to be great.

Most people never get that.

Rituals That Remind

Words are powerful. But sometimes, you need more.

Create team rituals that ground them. A moment of silence before each game. A “helmet tap” in honor of someone who can’t play. A shared quote before practice, even if they roll their eyes.

These small, repeated acts—they plant seeds. They remind the kids: this isn’t just another Tuesday.

This is their Tuesday. Their breath. Their legs. Their chance.

And it might not come again.

Let the Seniors Lead

If you’ve got a kid who’s been through it—who’s come back from injury, or knows what loss looks like—let them speak. Let them stand in the middle of the huddle and say it with their chest:

“I remember when I couldn’t walk. And now I’m here.”

That hits harder than any speech from you. Because it’s real. And it’s close to home.

Make space for that.

Make space for them to remind each other what matters.

Embrace the Suck

Some days are awful. Cold wind. Bad calls. Teammates acting like clowns. It happens.

And when it does? Lean in.

Don’t sugarcoat it. Don’t pretend it’s all sunshine and glory. Say it plainly: “Yeah, this sucks. But it still beats not being out here.”

There’s power in that. In acknowledging the grind and choosing to honor it anyway.

You don’t stay grounded by pretending everything’s perfect. You stay grounded by loving it even when it’s not.

Final Thoughts from the Sideline

Being on the field—alive, able, and surrounded by teammates—is a gift.

Most kids don’t know that until it’s gone.
Most men don’t know that until they’re old.
Most coaches don’t say it enough until it’s too late.

So say it.

Say it when they’re frustrated. Say it when they’re slouching in drills. Say it when they’re on the verge of throwing it all away because they missed a rep or sat a quarter.

Remind them what this is.

Not punishment. Not a burden. Not a job.

A goddamn miracle.

And if they still don’t get it? That’s okay. You’ve planted the seed. One day, they’ll feel the pull of nostalgia, the ache in the knee, the smell of grass, and the echo of a coach’s voice telling them they were lucky.

And they’ll nod.

Because they’ll know.