Youth Sports and Parental Plot Twists: A Childless Uncle’s Field Report
Reprinted from Soccer Parenting August 7, 20225
As a proud gay uncle with no children of my own (a guncle, if you will), as my niece and nephews grow older, my weekends are now sometimes spent not at brunch or antique markets, but on the sidelines of youth sports fields and in the bleachers of middle school gymnasiums—places I had not expected to revisit unless I was part of a gritty reboot of One Tree Hill, but this time it’s One Tree Chill and everyone’s got folding chairs and Stanley tumblers.
After checking out Karen Scholl’s hilarious new book “Surviving Soccer”, I felt inspired to share my own unique perspective.
Now, I played sports when I was younger, sure. But I was never what you’d call… “competitive.” I liked the snacks, the outfits, the occasional trophy I got for “participation” (a title I held with pride). So, when my niece and nephews started playing sports and I offered to come support them, I figured it’d be a cute, wholesome time—maybe I’d clap, eat a granola bar, and gossip with my sisters and their mom friends.
What I was not prepared for was the complete psychological thriller that is modern youth sports parenting.
Scene One: The Parking Lot Thunderdome
Even before the game starts, the tension begins in the parking lot, which is less a place to park and more a gladiator arena for SUVs. I rolled in casually behind the wheel of a luxury SUV that's comically larger than anything my husband, our goldendoodle, or I could ever justify —coffee in hand, Ella Mai’s “Boo’d Up” playing loudly—only to be nearly sideswiped by a minivan that looked like it had been packed by a doomsday prepper. Out spilled a dad, two kids, a case of Gatorade, a folding canopy, three lawn chairs, and what I swear was a portable espresso machine. The man looked like he’d aged a year just on the drive over.
And yet, as he emerged, sweating and breathless, he turned to me and said, “Made it! And only forgot one water bottle!”
Sir. You are a hero. A slightly frazzled hero who seems one lost shin guard away from a full breakdown—but a hero nonetheless.
Others, meanwhile, treated the walk from the car to the field like a pre-game warmup. These were the serious families. Tactical. Laser-focused. Kids in matching warm-up gear, moms yelling “Let’s go! Hustle!” before they were even on the field. I saw one mom toss her Starbucks cup like it was a grenade she no longer needed. These people weren’t going to a game—they were going to battle.
Scene Two: The Opening Ceremony of Civility
Ah, the start of the game—when hope is fresh and everyone still has a slight handle on their emotions. Parents greet each other with performative cheerfulness, smiling through the PTSD of their morning chaos.
“Oh my gosh, we were so late, Maddie couldn’t find her left cleat, and then my husband packed hockey gear by mistake! Haha, kill me.”
“Trevor ate half a donut and then threw it at the dog, so we’re really thriving.”
I nod politely, pretending I’ve had a similar struggle, when really the hardest part of my morning was deciding between hot or iced.
As the whistle blows, a lovely chorus of encouragement rings out:
“Great hustle, #7!”
“Nice pass, Ella!”
“Way to be there, team!”
It’s wholesome. It’s communal. It’s like a grown-up version of Barney and Friends, but with more Lululemon.
Scene Three: The Descent into Madness
I don’t know exactly when it happens. Maybe it’s when the other team scores. Maybe it’s when a ref makes their first bad call, but something in the air changes. A fog of intensity settles in. The tone shifts from “friendly neighborhood bake sale” to “political debate on Facebook.”
Suddenly, people who couldn’t remember where they parked are yelling strategic game plans like they’re auditioning for Ted Lasso: The Masterclass.
“Spread the field, Jason!”
“Why are we bunching?! We've practiced this!!”
“She was OFFSIDE—SHE WAS OFF. SIDES.”
A parent in a denim jacket clenches her folding chair like it’s a lifeline. A dad, previously all smiles, now has veins popping out of his neck and is muttering about zone defense as if he's coaching in the Premier League.
And let’s talk about how the vibe becomes a little… petty. There’s always that moment, when someone from the other team misses a shot, and the parents around me do that smug clap. You know the one. That slightly-too-satisfied “yay failure” applause that’s equal parts celebratory and passive-aggressive.
Now, if the team is winning, suddenly it's a backyard cookout vibe. Parents are relaxed, chatting about vacation plans, dogs, or school fundraisers. But if the team is losing? Silence. Tension. Whispered shade like:
“Well, our kids don’t even practice as much as Westhaven’s, they just throw money at everything.”
“Honestly, their coach is probably recruiting—who plays like that at this age?!”
Scene Four: The Existential Realization
Here’s what I’ve come to understand: this isn’t just about the game. It never was.
These games are town vs. town. They’re class warfare with shin guards. They’re status, socializing, and a stand-in for adult connection. My siblings? They know the parents of their kids’ teammates better than their husbands know their coworkers. Birthday invites, ride shares, even holiday plans—it all starts from the sidelines. It’s not just U-11 soccer; it’s Real Housewives: Rec League Edition. And while the kids are out there kicking grass and chasing snacks, the parents are deep in a drama of their own.
Folding chairs aren’t just chairs—they’re thrones. Front row means power parent. Back by the trash can? Either you're new or blissfully unbothered. Respect either way.
So yeah, the stakes feel high. Not because little Jake missed a goal, but because this is today’s village. The field is the village green—the modern pub. And your kid’s performance is somehow your performance.
Scene Five: A Light at the End of the Tunnel
But here’s the thing: I’m not judging (okay, I am, but lovingly). I get it. It’s a chaotic, emotional, identity-blurring experience, this youth sports life.
And I’ve talked to so many parents—good, thoughtful, self-aware parents—who’ve said that the resources from the Soccer Parenting Membership Site have been a game-changer. Not for their kid’s footwork. But for their own mindset.
It’s helped them see the bigger picture. To be better sideline humans. To support rather than stress. And honestly? That gives me hope. Hope that I can keep coming to these games without a panic attack. Hope that the kids keep playing because they love it—not because Mom’s having an identity crisis through the scoreline. And hope that next time, someone will offer me a seat under the pop-up tent, because the only thing worse than having to struggle through some of these games is sweating my behind off while doing it.
Until then, I’ll be sipping cold brew, clapping for every kid, secretly judging. Because I may not have children, but I do have standards.
Want to be that calm, collected, encouraging parent everyone swears they are at the start of the game? Check out SoccerParenting.com. It’s for the grown-ups who want to show up with grace, gratitude, and maybe, just maybe… a slightly quieter sideline voice.
