Your kid gets in the car after a bad game and just falls apart, and every word you can think of sounds wrong, so you say nothing. Then you spend the whole drive wondering if nothing was the worst thing you could have said.
Hey, I'm Sammy. Welcome to the Hey Sammy Podcast. Every week I read one question from a real sports parent and answer it like a friend would. This week, the car ride home. The 20 minutes that scare us more than any game ever will. This one's from Marcus in Denver.
He writes, "My son cried the whole drive home after a bad game. I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. Did I do the right thing?"
Marcus, I'm going to answer the question under your question first. You're not asking about the car. You're asking if you failed him. You didn't. Sit with that for a second before we go any further. Okay, now, the car.
Your instinct was better than you're giving it credit for. Because think about what the other version looks like. He's crying, and you start breaking down the game, what went wrong, what to work on, how it's really not that bad.
Every one of those is you talking yourself out of your own discomfort. None of it is for him. Kids know the difference, even at 8. Especially at 8. The ride home is the worst possible moment for a conversation about the game.
He's flooded, you're rattled, and he's trapped in a seat two feet from the person whose opinion he cares about most. That's not a talk. That's a hearing. There's actual research on this, by the way. When you ask kids their least favorite moment in sports, the ride home wins. Not losing, not getting benched, the car. Sit with what that says about us.
Oh, I learned this one the hard way with my middle one, by the way. I once analyzed a whole soccer game before we, um, left the parking lot. She didn't say a word for two days. So the silence you're beating yourself up about is the thing a lot of us wish we'd done.
But I'll be honest with you about one thing. There's silence that says, I'm here, and silence that says, I don't know what to do with you. A kid can't always tell which one he's getting, so you don't need a speech. You need about, um, six words. Something like, "Tough one, I'm right here." Then let it be quiet.
Maybe put his favorite song on. Maybe stop for food without asking if he's hungry. You're not fixing anything. You're just making the sadness less lonely. That's the whole job that night.
And here's what happens later, usually at bedtime or over breakfast. He brings it up. Kids process slow, and they come back when they're ready.
It might be that night. It might be Thursday, out of nowhere, while you're making dinner. When he does, resist the coaching. Ask him what he thinks before you tell him anything. You'll be surprised how often he already knows what went wrong. He doesn't need your analysis. He needs to know the bad game didn't change anything between you. The game belongs to him.
The safe place to fall apart? That part belongs to you.
Oh, and one more thing, because I know where your head goes next. You're going to want to do something. Text the coach, book a private lesson, sign him up for extra reps so this never happens again. Don't. Not this week. A bad game followed by a flurry of fixing tells a kid the crying was a problem to solve. It wasn't.
It was a kid who cares sitting next to a dad who cares. That's not a broken thing. Ask yourself one question before any sports decision this month: Is this for him? Or is it for the feeling in my chest on that drive?
Be honest.
I have to ask myself the same thing more than I'd like.
This week, try this. After his next game, win or lose, say one sentence in the car: "I love watching you play." Then nothing else about the game unless he starts. That's it. Just that one thing. That's the show.
Got a question? Email me, hey@heysami.com.
