A friend’s kid did not make varsity last week. Eighth grade. He had been on the JV roster all of seventh and most parents (and most of the coaches) told her he was a lock.
She called me from the parking lot. He was inside collecting his stuff.
I want to write down what worked, because I think she handled it about as well as a person can.
She did not make it about the coach. She did not say the coach made the wrong call. She did not text the coach. She did not start the parking-lot conversation that becomes the group-chat conversation that becomes the email-the-AD conversation. She knew where the line was.
She did not say we’ll show them next year. That sentence makes the next twelve months a revenge tour and removes any chance of joy.
She did not pretend it didn’t matter. She did not say it’s just a sport. It is a sport, and it does matter, and pretending otherwise is the fastest way to lose your kid’s trust.
What she did say, when he got in the car, was this. That sucks. I’m sorry. I love watching you play.
Then she drove home with the radio on. She did not bring it up at dinner. She did not bring it up Sunday. On Monday morning at breakfast he said I think I want to keep playing JV and try out for varsity again next year. She said okay. That was the whole conversation.
The parts I keep coming back to. That sucks. I’m sorry. I love watching you play. In that order. Three sentences. Sixteen words. The whole job.
— Maren