Should Our Kids Cry When They Lose?
The referee checked his stopwatch and relayed to the teams what he just read: “30 seconds left!”
All of us parents let out a collective sigh. We were ready for the soccer game to finish and get out of the 90 degree heat. Most of the kids were as well. It was the last game of their season.
With just under 10 seconds left, the opposing team kicked the ball into a clear space, giving one of their players a free path to the goal. Hudson (my son) sprinted from midfield in a vain attempt to stop the final shot as if the entire season was hanging in the balance. He flew past two of his teammates—who were continuing a game-long conversation about who knows what. With seconds left on the clock, Hudson closed the gap on the forward and kicked the ball out of bounds. Before the opposing team could throw the ball back in play, the referee blew his whistle and ended the game.
Hudson’s team lost 9-0.
After he grabbed his powerade and post-game-healthy-parent-snack, he made his way across the field to us. I could see in his eyes what was about to happen. I got up and met him at midfield, hugged him, and gave him the permission his heart needed to hear with four simple words: “It’s OK to cry.” And that’s exactly what he did.
Why did I give him permission to cry?
Shared experience
I played every sport possible growing up and cried after most losses. I didn’t want to and I was embarrassed every time it happened. My parents were my asylum, the place I went to bury my head in their chest and cry under the cover of their embrace. It never lasted long, but it became a customary ritual after each losing effort.
My parents never barked at me to toughen up or to stop acting like a baby.
And I want to offer that same place of refuge for my kids in those moments.
To be clear, there are absolutely things in life that are worth crying about and things that are not worth crying about. My kids are reminded often when we turn off a show and let them know it’s time for bed that “this is not something we cry about.” Cue the seamless transition to the next point...But sports, when played correctly, are worth crying over.
Tears are often a product of risk + failure
Dr. Brian Bolt, the Dean of Education and Golf coach at Calvin University, points out that “sport doesn’t work if we don’t care.” It’s part of the reason why watching a YMCA soccer league for nine and ten year olds can be a maddening experience. If a handful of kids don’t care, which is bound to happen, it ruins the experience for those who do care. But caring is risky. In most games, a winner and loser is declared. At the end of most seasons, only one team ends with a win.
As Dr. Bolt also pointed out at the Game Changer Sports Conference at Dordt University, “Sports is a battle of scarce resources. There is one championship and one trophy.” The majority of athletes fail to reach the pinnacle of sport. If you care enough to give it your all and still come away with an L, your tears are not only validated, but should be celebrated.
Few things in life compare to putting everything you have on the line, after weeks and months of practice and training, in front of people you care about, and finding out you don’t have what it takes. That hurts.
If Hudson was picking his nose in the corner and trying to catch butterflies instead of sprinting to stop a goal that would have given the opposing team a double digit victory, then I would still cheer him and attend every game. But if he cried afterwards I'm not certain I would celebrate tears coming from failure without any risk involved.
A trajectory of emotional health
It’s often said that sports are a microcosm of life. The highs, lows, and everything in between prepares us for situations later in life when the stakes are higher. I want my boy to know it’s ok to cry after a loss on the field because it teaches him that it’s ok to cry after losses off the field.
If I act like I am embarrassed by his emotions after a loss and demean him publicly—or privately, what kind of trajectory does that set for the rest of his life?
At best, it means he bottles up his emotions when life goes sideways. He becomes numb to the pain and even inhibits his ability to enjoy life’s most exciting moments because he’s been discipled to stunt his emotions. At worst, he begins to protect himself from pain by refusing to take risks. After all, the safest way to avoid failure is to stop caring and stop trying.
A word to my Huddy
Hudson, I hope you read this some day and know that moments like these are character defining moments. I’ve seen you score touchdowns, goals, and baskets. I’ve seen you set school records for endurance events. But I have never been more excited about a highlight moment as I was this past Saturday morning when you risked it all to prevent a seemingly meaningless goal by this world’s standards.
What you did mattered. More than you probably know at this point in your life. I’m praying you continue to grow into a man who fights for every inch—in sports and in life—as long as there is time left on the clock and regardless of the score. I hope you experience the joy of victory and celebrate joyously and responsibly. When you risk and fail, and you will, I hope you continue to run towards those who love you, cry if you need to, get back up and risk again.
As long as God gives me breath in my lungs, I’ll be there cheering you on.
