Teen tryouts are more
stressful than watching any youth tournament. At a recent tryout event for a
J.O. volleyball club, I saw elated faces and relief hugs between teens and
parents. This was after the first of four teams of girls were dismissed from
the courts. I also saw the anguish of parents still waiting. Some appeared so
stressed they held their heads, wringing their hands, and said they could not handle
another minute of waiting. I wasn’t worried. “Whatever happens, happens. We can
deal with it,” I told a friend, thinking out of 4 levels, my kid would make one
of them and even if it was the bottom rung, we were still in for a season of
sports.
We were all there with
one goal in mind: to have our teens get on a roster. Selection meant that
“golden ticket” to gain the training at team practices and the experience of tournament
competition. This is where athletes are developed. They learn strategy, build up
physical endurance, confidence, take risks, and get a boost of self-esteem.
They learn to trust and lead others.
The last wave of teens
was dismissed. At first, I didn’t see my daughter among the buzzing crowd. She was
not with the burst of smiling girls waving the roster paperwork, beckoning parents
to the back of the gym for the deposit check. There was a lull. Not a good
sign.
Then I saw her, head
high, drinking from her water bottle with disappointment in her gaze. She nodded,
and I smiled, reassuringly. A parent can read their kid’s expressions. Her feet
bypassed me, darting through the crowd toward the restrooms where I assume she blinked
a tear and blew her nose behind a stall door. I was unsettled, in disbelief.
Benched! No worse, Cut! Where is my resolve now, Miss “Whatever Happens, Happens?” I had to dig it out quickly.
Be Empathic, with a Brave Face
It’s painful to watch your child get cut. My heart sank. I just assumed she’d make a team, especially after five years in competitive volleyball. I’ve seen the tears and hugs in team waiting rooms before. I inhaled deeply to reset my emotions, and became that stoic pillar on which she could lean. As she came up to me, I hoped she felt my magnetic pull projecting a recovery energy that everything will be okay.
It’s painful to watch your child get cut. My heart sank. I just assumed she’d make a team, especially after five years in competitive volleyball. I’ve seen the tears and hugs in team waiting rooms before. I inhaled deeply to reset my emotions, and became that stoic pillar on which she could lean. As she came up to me, I hoped she felt my magnetic pull projecting a recovery energy that everything will be okay.
We both acted strong,
and brushed off her status casually, answering questions through the crowd as familiar
faces inquired, “How did you do?”
“Turned down,” we say
publicly, and offer congratulations to the teens who made a team. We hung
around to assess options. Then, cutting our losses at this club, we opened the
doors to exit the humid gym. The contrast of bright sunlight stung our eyes. I
wanted to talk some sense into the sun.
Analyze, but Don’t Bash the Process
In the car, I listened. She had competed with more than 90 teens that showed up for 40 spots. She explained that she knew she missed a pass when evaluators were watching; that even with strong serves, blocks, and passes, with so many players, there were few chances to touch the ball. Every action counted, and when she did perform well, the evaluators it seemed were not looking. It wasn’t a matter of endurance, as the tryouts took longer than two hours, yet she did not seem winded. “It’s beyond your control,” I said. “You did your best and I’m proud of you.”
In the car, I listened. She had competed with more than 90 teens that showed up for 40 spots. She explained that she knew she missed a pass when evaluators were watching; that even with strong serves, blocks, and passes, with so many players, there were few chances to touch the ball. Every action counted, and when she did perform well, the evaluators it seemed were not looking. It wasn’t a matter of endurance, as the tryouts took longer than two hours, yet she did not seem winded. “It’s beyond your control,” I said. “You did your best and I’m proud of you.”
In the Twin Cities, there
are other options: Secondary clubs hold tryouts later in the day to recruit
those cut by popular top tier clubs in the morning. We knew we had to decide
this quickly. There was a stigma to shake off.
Listen, Comfort, Invite Comradery
Back at home, we sat at the dining table, decompressing. Hugs seemed to be the best remedy, as my words didn’t bring relief. Still, I tried to reinforce my support, reiterating: “That was courageous to take the risk and tryout at a top competitive club.” The texts and tweets of her friends and their results at different clubs joined our table conversation virtually. The healing came from comradery.
Back at home, we sat at the dining table, decompressing. Hugs seemed to be the best remedy, as my words didn’t bring relief. Still, I tried to reinforce my support, reiterating: “That was courageous to take the risk and tryout at a top competitive club.” The texts and tweets of her friends and their results at different clubs joined our table conversation virtually. The healing came from comradery.
We each retreated to
freshen up. When she emerged, I saw a hint of puffy eyelids. I told her it is
okay to cry, to be mad, and I saw she already knew this. In the hours after the
tryouts, she shook off the defeat, gleefully talking about an upcoming high
school dance. But then later: a delayed reaction surfaced. The Tryout Blues snuck
back in and I saw her eyes puffy again. The emotional healing process continued
with an internalized demeanor, and then physical reports of a headache, a stomach
ache, stepped up roughhousing with a sibling. All of this was a normal reaction
to the anguish of the disappointment.
It’s About Her, Not Me
I recounted the tough odds, and my mind drifted to secret regret and wonder. Perhaps I should have encouraged a lesser competitive club where the odds where slightly more in her favor, but I stopped my mind of playing that rewind tape and tried not to look back. I worried about a lightning bolt trigger that would bring a wave of a new identity. As individuals, we all identify ourselves with our accomplishments. It makes us who we are: Where we work. Where we play. My teen always beamed when answering questions about her sport. Now, she’ll talk more about how she spends her time using other talents. I stopped myself from worrying what that might be.
I recounted the tough odds, and my mind drifted to secret regret and wonder. Perhaps I should have encouraged a lesser competitive club where the odds where slightly more in her favor, but I stopped my mind of playing that rewind tape and tried not to look back. I worried about a lightning bolt trigger that would bring a wave of a new identity. As individuals, we all identify ourselves with our accomplishments. It makes us who we are: Where we work. Where we play. My teen always beamed when answering questions about her sport. Now, she’ll talk more about how she spends her time using other talents. I stopped myself from worrying what that might be.
I made a conscious
effort to not project my Tryout Blues on my teen, exacerbating the issue.
However, secretly, those first 12 hours were tough disappointment I felt in my
gut. I kept thinking about how lucky a team would have been to have her. They
missed out on her athletic dedication--never late, always warmed up and ready
to play. They’ll miss her leadership contributions and contagious team spirit to
help players shake off any lost points. I could always read her lips from the
bleachers saying, “Come on, we can do this!” Her team cheer. I will miss the
team parents I spent hours with during the last few seasons. Reveling in this
thought, my Tryout Blues hit hard. Where and when will I see this again? But I could
not let myself wallow in Tryout Blues for long.
New Options: Not Making a Team is Not
a Failure
I suddenly realized we have free time coming up with no commitments. “Is there another winter sport of interest?” I asked my teen. “You now could take on those babysitting jobs since you’ll have open weekends,” I suggested.
I suddenly realized we have free time coming up with no commitments. “Is there another winter sport of interest?” I asked my teen. “You now could take on those babysitting jobs since you’ll have open weekends,” I suggested.
While we had planned
our calendars to allow for 18 hours a week for practices and weekend
tournaments, now there seemed to be a large gap of time to fulfill in other
meaningful ways. What an opportunity! Plus, there was that cost: $2500 to $3000
for a regional team club placement. Now extra funds in our budget could be put
toward some other sport or maybe a spring break vacation!
Then, I stopped myself
from offering too much guidance. I tried
to just stay factual, not emotional. Together, we composed emails to directors
at other clubs we considered, and heard back they were already full. Except for
one club known to take cut players.
Then, I let go! I had
to let my daughter figure this out, herself. I knew her self-esteem did not
solely come from her chosen sport. She has many talents to channel elsewhere. I shook off the Tryout Blues, knowing there
will be another chapter, and I went to sleep that night in suspense of what was
to be the next big thing. Que sera, sera. Whatever she decided would be
respected. .
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