You know something your son doesn't. The club told the parents, 3 kids won't be on this team next season. He's in the garage right now packing his bag, happy, humming something. And every day you don't say anything gets a little heavier to carry.
I'm Sammy, and this is Hey Sammy, the show for the stuff that keeps sports parents up at night. Today, The Secret in the House. When cuts are coming and your kid doesn't know. This one's from Steve in Pittsburgh.
He writes, "My son's travel team just told us they're cutting 3 kids at the end of the season. He doesn't know yet. When and how do I tell him?"
Steve, I'll give you the when first because it's the easy part. Soon. This week. And here's the reasoning, because it's not just rip-the-bandage logic.
First, he may already half-know. Kids hear everything, parking lot fragments, a teammate's older brother, the weird energy at practice.
Half-knowing is worse than knowing, because a kid alone with a rumor fills the gaps with fear.
Second, and this is the big one, if the cut lands in 3 months and he learns you knew the whole time, the cut becomes the small loss. The big one is finding out his dad watched him walk around blind and chose comfortable silence. That's a trust invoice that takes years to pay off. You don't want the club's roster decision to become your credibility problem.
Now, the how. And the word that matters is information, not prophecy. You're delivering facts, not forecasting his doom.
And pick a moment with an exit, a drive, a walk, shooting around in the driveway. Hard news lands softer when a kid has somewhere to put his eyes. And somewhere to put his feet. Keep it short. Keep your face steady.
The club announced they're keeping a smaller roster next year. Three spots are going away. Nobody knows who yet, including me. I wanted you to hear it from me and not the parking lot.
Then stop. Don't decorate it with reassurances you can't back up. Don't say, I'm sure you're safe. You're not sure. And if you're wrong, that sentence becomes shrapnel.
Then hand him the part he owns, because this is where it turns. Ask him, how do you want to play these next months? Some kids hear a deadline and grind. Extra touches, first to practice, a mission.
Some kids relax once the unknown has a name and just play. Both are fine. The point is, he's driving something again instead of being cargo.
Meanwhile, your homework happens offstage. Get an honest read on his standing from the coach directly if you can, not to leak it to your son, so you aren't blindsided, because he'll need you steady either way. And quietly build the floor. Know which clubs have tryouts, what the rec league looks like, where his friends play. If the bad news comes, it should land on a floor, not a hole.
And if it does come, your first sentence matters. Make it about him, not the club. This says nothing about whether you're a ballplayer. It says their roster got smaller. Then give it a weekend before anybody talks about next steps. Grief first, logistics later.
And one more scenario to hold quietly, because it's real: he might survive the cut and lose 3 friends to it. That's its own strange weight, celebrating while your buddies clean out their bags.
If that day comes, point him back toward them. A text, an invite, showing up at their new team's game once. How he treats the kids who got cut will teach him more than keeping the roster spot does. Teams end. All of them, eventually.
The way you treated people when the list went up, that part follows you. Kids remember who stayed normal with them. So do their parents. And Steve, between now and then, don't let the countdown eat the season.
He's still on the team. The games still count. The pizza after still tastes right. Guard that. Your move happens this week, not next. Tell him what the club announced, plainly. Then ask how he wants to handle these months. The rest follows from there.
That's it for today! If your family is staring down a cut list, I'm in your corner. Write me: hey@heysammy.com. We'll get through the season either way.
