Sorry, Kid…

Sorry, Kid…

I’m not going to carry your baseball bag. It’s your equipment, your sport, your bag. You carry it.

Sorry, Kid…

I’m not going to tell you you’re the best player on the team if you have a bad attitude and you don’t work hard at getting better. Getting better takes hard work and if you don’t want to work hard (and it’s okay if you don’t), then you won’t get any better.

Sorry, Kid…

Someone else’s hard work is harder than yours. That might always be the case. Only way to find out is to work smarter and harder and longer than every one else while simultaneously not worrying about anyone else’s work but your own.

Sorry, Kid…

That’s not ESPN video taping your practice and nobody wants to interview you after.

Sorry, Kid…

These are the rules and if you don’t follow the rules in this sport, there are consequences on and off the field.

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Sorry, Kid…

Losing stinks. I’ve lost more than my share of games. It’s a terrible feeling, but with every loss we have the opportunity to learn something and get better and I’m not going anywhere. I’m here no matter what – I’m in this with you.

Sorry, Kid…

Not being the fastest kid on the field is hard. Going up a level and not being the best is hard after being the best at the last level, but trust the process – when you listen, take feedback and get after it when no one is watching, you will get better. You may not ever be the fastest kid, but if you keep pushing, you will be in the game longer and out last many who throw in the towel before you.

Sorry, Kid…

Being on the bench is hard. Wanting to play and knowing you can play is hard when the lineup paper gets signed by the coach, not you. But you are still on the team and, therefore are still a contributor. Contribute in whatever way you can. Whether that’s to make the starter’s better or to encourage them from the sidelines, you do your part. Don’t ever stop doing your part.

Sorry, Kid…

Hard work is, well, hard. I wish I could tell you it was easy or that all the breaks go your way, but I can’t. Life stings sometimes, but it’s also quite amazing sometimes. We have to take our knocks, get back up and go again and every effort looks different than the last one, so just keep getting back up.

Sorry, Kid…

You are stuck with me. I know you think others have given up on you, but I haven’t. You can’t get rid of me. I may be silent and I may not say much to you after a game or after a tough loss or break, but I’m still here. When you are ready, I will be here to listen or talk to cry or whatever, you will always have me for that.

Being a parent of a kid in youth sports is about choosing your opportunities to teach and choosing your opportunities to connect and bond. The moment is today, right now – not ten years down the road. My kids like to dream and they like to imagine themselves on the big stage, but my actions and my words as a parent are vital to their character, like, right now. I just keep telling myself when I show up, I need to be there for them today. Not their future self (though lessons will help guide that), but who they are today. The stakes seem to get higher as they get older, but they don’t have to. Keep it simple and remember these are the same kids who colored on your dresser with crayon.

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Priscilla Tallman is a freelance writer in Phoenix, AZ. She has an undergraduate degree in Psychology and graduate degree in Clinical Psychology. She has written for FloVolleyball, Volleyball Magazine, The Art of Coaching Volleyball, Sweat RX, Gorgo Fitness Magazine, CrossFit Fury and the CrossFit Games. She is married with two children and in a former life played collegiate and professional volleyball. She currently coaches high school volleyball (indoor and beach) and hopes to pass on her love for the sport to the next generation of amazing athletes and leaders.