Parents, you survived struggles when playing sports. Let your kids do the same.
Parents, you’re great people, but considering the standards most of you use to raise your kids today, it’s amazing that you survived high school athletics without severe mental trauma. We all grew up in the same era, but do you remember it?
Back when I played, there were no private lacrosse lessons or elite travel teams. I loved the game, and if I wanted to get better over the weekend, I’d leave in the morning with my stick in hand and be gone all day, just returning in time for dinner. I never saw this as training; for me, it was just plain fun.
No one could reach me all day. My parents knew where the field was, and that was good enough for them. No cell phones or mobile devices—unthinkable today! You might wonder, “What if something happened?” The answer was simple: if something went wrong, it sucked, we dealt with it, and moved on.
At the park, we made up games, split into teams, and improvised goals. A tennis ball worked just fine, and goalie gear was often just a tennis racquet as a goalie stick and a Jason hockey mask for a helmet (a nod to all you 80’s kids). If someone had a helmet, great, but we certainly didn’t stop playing if they didn’t. We used common sense and didn’t hit the kid without a helmet in the head. Yes, our parents trusted us to use our judgment.
Sometimes, we got hurt. Cuts, broken bones, and lost teeth were all part of it. But my mother never filed any lawsuits or called another parent to assign blame. As far as she was concerned, if I got hurt, it was my fault. Even if another kid hurt me on purpose, she’d ask, “Then why are you hanging out with him?”
Every once in a while, a kid would show up with a shiny new stick, and we’d take turns using it. Sharing and working together became the norm. Nobody complained that the stick didn’t have the right amount of whip, and if someone brought a lacrosse ball, nobody said, “This is a waste of time because the ball is too shiny.” I didn’t even know what a shiny ball was until I started coaching.
I wasn’t the most popular kid and didn’t have many friends. If I couldn’t find someone to play with, a wall and a ball were enough to pass the time. Rain, sleet, or snow, I’d find my wall, and yes, I even used my lacrosse stick to clear snow so I could play. Today, that would be unheard of, even with all the “Super Duper All-Weather Crazy Wax Marked Kick Butt East Coast Monster Mesh Canadian Style!” mesh pocket. At least, I think that’s what the kids call it—I’m not sure if they’re talking about mesh or ordering a hamburger at the drive-thru.
Eventually, another kid would show up with his ball, and we’d start talking about what jerks everyone else was for rejecting us that day. And just like that, a new friend was made.
When the season came around, most everyone made the team, but not everyone got to play. Still, those kids weren’t upset because they were just happy to be part of the team. Remember when it was a proud moment to be on a team, regardless of your role?
Those who didn’t perform well had to learn to deal with the disappointment of not being the best athlete. Accepting reality was the first step toward improvement and recognizing your strengths. Some kids weren’t as smart as others, didn’t know where to go on the field, and yes, they got called stupid. Shocking, I know! I don’t condone calling a kid stupid, but I wouldn’t call in the National Guard over it either.
If I didn’t excel at lacrosse, my parents didn’t care. They didn’t care how much playing time I got or how many goals I scored. To this day, my dad still asks if I’m involved in squash, jai alai, or whatever that thing is with the stick. Was he a bad guy? No, not at all! He cared more about me being respectful, getting exercise, and taking care of my responsibilities. He valued the lessons I learned from being on a team more than the sport itself.
If the coach was a jerk, my parents’ attitude was to deal with it, because I might one day have a boss who’s even worse. They never felt the need to, or saw it as their responsibility to, address the coach. If I asked my dad to talk to the coach, he’d say, “I’m not on the team, why would I talk to him?” If I kept pushing, he’d be more likely to side with the coach than with me—imagine that!
On my team, my actions were my own. Consequences were expected, even if the situation was out of my control. That’s life, and you had to deal with it. “Them’s the breaks,” Mom would say. The idea of parents sending a note if things weren’t “fair” was unheard of. If my mom did send a note, I’d probably see it as a horrifying source of shame.
Often, I had to deal with team conflicts on my own. Sometimes, this meant getting into fights, throwing a punch, taking some hits, and learning to get over it. Most of the kids, we were friends again the next day. Nobody asked where the coach was when this happened, because coaches weren’t expected to babysit us 24/7.
I went through this, and so did most of you, and you seem to be doing okay. When you played, you experienced failure, success, and responsibility, and learned from all of it. So please, let your kids do the same.
