Sometimes Our Job Is Just to Walk Together

This year, I served as the assistant coach for Eloise's first club lacrosse team.

As a longtime lacrosse coach, it was also my first experience coaching second graders in this capacity.

That challenged me in ways I didn't expect.

• I learned just how many times a group of seven-year-olds can go to the bathroom during a 90-minute practice.

• I was reminded that patience, while a strength of mine, is still a muscle that needs constant training.

• And I discovered that breaking down skills and concepts for little learners is much harder than it looks.

But the biggest challenge wasn't coaching second graders.

It was figuring out how to be both coach and mom.

Throughout the season, I found myself constantly switching hats and worrying if I was wearing either hat well.

Was I being too hard on Eloise or was I pushing her enough? Did she know just how proud I was of her as her mom not just her coach?

I hear versions of this struggle from parents all the time.

Even if they're not standing on the sideline with a whistle, many parents feel like coaches in the backyard, in the car ride home, and at the dinner table.

Knowing when to put down the whistle and just be Mom or Dad can be surprisingly hard.

I felt that tension most during our final weekend of the season.

We played in our first and only tournament.

There were lots of new experiences.

Checking.

Goalies.

No pass rule.

A full-sized field.

Our team played incredibly well all day.

I was so proud of them.

Going into our final game, we knew that if we lost by two goals or fewer, we'd advance to the championship.

Nothing says first tournament like three girls chasing down the ball!

The team we were playing was talented.

Everyone was tired.

And with only 30 seconds left, Eloise caused a turnover right in front of the goal, picked up the ground ball, and started sprinting the 70 yards toward the goal.

The moment she picked up that ball, I was convinced she was going to score.

We were going to be within two.

The girls were going to rush the field.

We were heading to the championship.

As she crossed midfield, I heard the referee announce the time remaining.

Just seconds.

She kept running.

As she approached the goal, she was fouled.

The referee awarded an 8-meter shot and announced that this would be the final play of the game.

Standing on the sideline, I had complete confidence.

The whistle blew.

She ran in.

She shot.

Right into the goalie's stick.

No goal.

Game over.

We lost by three.

As the girls came off the field, I could see the disappointment all over her face.

Not crying.

Not hysterical.

Just quiet.

Small.

Holding it all in.

I gave her a high five.

I don't even remember what I said.

Probably something like, "Good work."

Then I did all the coach things.

I gathered the team.

Told them how proud I was.

Handed out t-shirts.

Took a team picture.

As we packed up and walked toward the car,

For the first time, I really looked at Eloise.

She was so sad.

I asked if she was okay.

Looking back, that may have been the dumbest question I could have asked.

Of course she wasn't okay.

She didn't answer.

And if I'm honest, my heart hurt watching her.

I wanted to make it better.

I wanted to take the disappointment away.

Because she had played an incredible day of lacrosse.

She scored goals.

Won draw controls.

Picked up ground balls.

Caused turnovers.

Cheered for her teammates.

Got knocked down and got back up over and over again.

I was unbelievably proud of her.

As a coach.

And as a mom.

Then I caught myself.

Because I had been standing on the sideline completely convinced she was going to make that shot.

Me.

An adult.

With nearly twenty years of coaching experience.

I was expecting a seven-year-old, after playing three games in four hours and sprinting nearly the length of a football field, to do something she had never done before.

Make an 8-meter shot.

And suddenly I remembered why I signed a seven-year-old up for club sports in the first place.

Not so she could make the shot.

So she could have the opportunity to take it.

To earn the trust of her teammates and coaches through hard work and positivity.

To develop the grit it takes to run the length of the field, absorb a hard foul, and step up with the game on the line.

To learn how to handle success.

But also how to handle disappointment.

To learn that failure doesn't break us.

To learn that we are capable of hard things.

To learn that we are stronger than we think.

In that moment, while she was sad, disappointed, and quiet...

This was the goal.

Growth.

So instead of trying to take the pain away,

I simply walked beside her.

And watched her grow stronger.

Sometimes our job as a coach isn't to fix it.

Sometimes our job as a parent isn't to fix it.

Sometimes our job is simply to walk together.