A kid did not make varsity last week. Eighth grade. He’d been on the JV roster all of seventh and most parents said he was a lock. His mom called from the parking lot.
Here’s what worked, because she handled it about as well as a person can.
She didn’t make it about the coach. She didn’t say the coach made the wrong call. She didn’t text the coach. She didn’t 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 didn’t say we’ll show them next year. That sentence makes the next twelve months a revenge tour and removes any chance of joy.
She didn’t pretend it didn’t matter. She didn’t say it’s just a sport. It is a sport, and it does matter, and pretending otherwise is the fastest way to lose a kid’s trust.
What she said when he got in the car: That sucks. I’m sorry. I love watching you play.
Then she drove home with the radio on. She didn’t bring it up at dinner. She didn’t 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.
Three sentences. Sixteen words. The whole job. ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������