Have you ever had that friend who convinces you to get a pixie cut because it will look so cute with your round face, or tells you that spandex shorts are okay to wear even if you have major camel toe? Have you ever been in a twisted relationship where it feels good to be involved, even though you know most of what you are doing is fucked up and makes no sense? That is how I would describe my relationship with my friend, Youth Sports, and if you know her, you know she’s a fabulous little bitch that plays mind games with you, leads you to make wild decisions, and keeps you coming back for more of the chaos.
I have 2 kids, a 14 year old daughter and an 11 year old son. My daughter is involved in club gymnastics, club volleyball, school volleyball, and travel soccer. My son is involved in travel soccer, club volleyball, and travel basketball, and next year in middle school, he will attempt to add some school sports to the mix. The majority of these activities go all year round. I only have 1 husband, no driving service, and no housekeeper. Simple math tells a rational human that this schedule is not sustainable. Since being rational is not really my strong suit, I dove right in thinking, yeah we could totally do this, it will be fun to watch the kids grow and be competitive in the sports they love to play. And now, 4 years into this way of life, I am an insane woman, drinking the kool-aid with all the other crazy parents, pretending we are all okay. But the truth is, I’m tired as fuck, I don’t know what day it is, the sound of blowing whistles haunts my dreams, wristbands are the only accessory I wear, and I have mastered the art of tournament snackery. I did not see this coming.
As the youngest of 3, I have always been a competitive person, with my goal in life to one-up my siblings to vie for my parents’ attention and approval. Both my siblings are very smart and athletic, which sent my competitive juices into overdrive. My parents did not put a whole lot of stock into athletics, so I never had the opportunity to play in youth sports until it was offered in school. They only allowed me to take piano lessons (very Asian of them), and boy did I play that piano like someone was chasing me down a field. So in the meantime, my brother, who always wished I was a boy, taught me how to play all kinds of sports until I was his make-shift little brother. Once I was in junior high and high school, I had more opportunities to be active in athletics, and I loved every aspect of it; the adrenaline rush, the team bonding, the chanting and cheering, the shit talking, the leadership. It also satiated my Napoleon Complex, giving my 4’11” ass a chance to strut around like I was 6 feet tall.
Because I always wished I had tried my hand in more sports, I promised that my kids would be able to play anything and everything until they found what they loved to do. I had my littles in activities since they were 2 years old, mostly because they were so clumsy and would fall for no reason. I kept hearing my daughter fall to the ground and follow with, “I’m okay!” It started with Mom and Tot classes, then progressed to park district house sports. We were happy there, everyone was a winner. Then one day I heard someone say that the majority of high school athletes have been doing travel sports years before they started Freshman year, and I went into panic mode. Fuck this happy place of house sports, I had to get my kids into this travel cult experience before they fell behind their peers.
It started with my daughter joining club gymnastics in 4th grade, and she was a natural. My proud mom brain watched her strut on that floor to that God-awful competition music that all the girls have to use, and I thought to myself, “Wait, am I watching the next Simone Biles? Oh my God, she is going to be the first Filipino-American olympiad, like the freaking Bruno Mars of gymnastics!” (Filipinos have Bruno Mars and Pacquiao to represent in American pop culture, so you’ll be seeing more references of them). Yeah, her cartwheel and forward roll were that amazing. Medal after medal, my heart beamed with pride. Her success was my drug and I was itching for more.
At the time, the kids’ schedules felt manageable because my son was still in 1st grade and participating in house level activities. I was also a stay-at-home mom, only working a few half days during the week or weekends here and there, so their school and sports schedules were my life. I thought, hey why not get her into volleyball too, since volleyball was my sport and I have dreams of playing on the same team as my kids someday (yes, my kids would hate that, and no, I don’t care). So we added club volleyball to the mix. The following year, a soccer coach poked at my pride and said she could have great success in travel soccer, and I picture my girl ripping her jersey off after a penalty kick at the Women’s World Cup. So of course, we added travel soccer to her schedule too because if she is the next Bruno Mars of women’s soccer, we need to foster that growth.
No biggie, right? Wrong. See, when you’re watching your kid do gymnastics, you’re not screaming a bunch of obscenities and instructions; you are quiet so that she doesn’t crotch herself on the beam. You keep yourself composed in the stands and clap and cheer softly, keeping your poise. Then during the car ride home, you tell her everything she could improve, because everyone loves unsolicited advice from people who know nothing about the topic of which they speak (I mean, I did do gymnastics in high school for 2 whole weeks, but when I realized that no amount of chalk could handle my sweaty palms and I could not fathom wearing a leotard, my career was over). At volleyball and soccer games though, well shit, you can just yell your balls off until you get kicked out by the officials. In the blink of an eye, I went from hoping my kids get some cardio in and have fun with friends to, “Score some fucking points or you’re not having dinner!” There was something about competitive sports that unleashed some kind of unhinged behavior in me. Soon, I felt like I was way more invested in the kids’ success than they were. That’s when I knew I was officially sucked into this mess.
And that was just the beginning, because remember, I have another kid, the one that was dragged around to all of his sister’s practices and games, just waiting anxiously until it was his time to get into exactly the same amount of activities or else life is unfair. So I had no choice, I had to put him in all things travel as well, or else I’d be accused of favoring his sister (little do they know that my favorite is my husband because he listens the best out of the 3 of them). Even earlier than my daughter, my son got started in travel sports in 3rd grade. This was the turning point of our family, when we were forced to divide and conquer, as well as give up our own extra curricular activities. We had 2 children balancing 5 to 6 sports in a given season, with each sport demanding practices anywhere from 2 to 5 times during the week. I was in charge of driving around one kid, my husband with the other. Seriously, what was I thinking? These little fuckers weren’t going to be the Bruno Mars of anything, but I was in too deep.
I believe this is the chapter in life when many adults get their mom and dad bods because we rely on fast food during the weekdays, food at concession stands during the weekends, we are in a constant state of stress, we sleep in our cars and develop back pain, and we break our brains trying to figure out how to manage all these sports apps that are truly designed to suck. I watched my kids develop muscular bodies as mine melted into a gelatinous concoction of nacho cheese and Chick-Fil-A special sauce. My new wardrobe consisted of sweatpants and hoodies of every sports team they belong to. My car began to smell like food, feet, and knee pads. I had a steady supply of car chips and water for emergency consumption in the event of hanger by any and all those involved in youth sports. In the trunk I carried a blanket and camping chairs for the outdoor sports, bleacher seats for the indoor sports, a book to read for in between games, and an extra battery for my phone for the stupid amounts of videos I take because you never know when you’ll have to create a compilation video for a college recruiter (yes I do, it’s never). In order to better yell at my children on the sidelines and bleachers, I had to learn things like off sides in soccer, libero rules in volleyball, screens and inbound plays for basketball, and the flippidy-flop tricks in gymnastics (clearly I still struggle with those). I also had to learn how to braid hair in various ways, kinesiotape knees and shoulders, find the right shoes and gear for my very different kids, and find creative ways to get my stubborn kids to drink more water and eat less candy. It was a big life changer filled with a roller coaster of emotions, and I like to eat my feelings. Mom bod was in full effect for me. All I needed was a “Can I speak to your manager” haircut to complete the look, but I have opted for hats because I don’t have time to wash and style my hair.
The youth sports demands were all-consuming, spilling into every aspect of our lives. With all the sports came all the laundry; the endless washing of jerseys, leotards, warm ups, knee pads, elbow pads, goalie gloves, you name it. I wanted to burn all their shoes and what smelled like the animals that died in there. I questioned how pieces of soccer turf ended up in everyone’s beds and drawers. I once found stray undies in my car, and realized my kid went from a soccer game to a gymnastics meet and just shed her clothes all over the place. I have 5 right handed youth gloves for those cold soccer days, and wonder why they always lose the left handed gloves. And don’t get me started on all the team hair ties, key chains, and special sweatshirts to wear in place of the already purchased team warm ups. To complicate matters more, I also went back to work because this shit is hella expensive. I already thought tuition and uniforms for these sports was expensive, but no one tells you about the team tournament fees, the hotel fees, the coaches’ travel stipends, the airfare, the car rentals, and all the entrance fees (like why am I paying to watch my kid, didn’t I already pay an exorbitant amount to get them on the team in the first place?). When the kids ask why we haven’t gone anywhere for spring break the past few years, I tell them to quit a sport and we’ll go somewhere. That usually shuts them up.
In my spare time (i.e. during practice times), I live at Costco. Besides filling my tank with gas every week, my Costco purchase history consists of granola bars, trail mix, chips and juice for team snacks and tournament snacks, beef jerky, fruit and veggie pouches, smoothie mix, and so so so many water bottles that are constantly being lost (and if you recall, they hardly drink water, so what a damn waste). We also live off of ready-made meals, lots of processed meat and cheese packages, and rotisserie chickens that I may or may not have left in the oven for several days. And Costco knows what it is doing, pandering to these fatigued zombie sports parents…yes of course I will buy your NutriBullet because I drink most of my meals blended and on the go, and sure I will buy your hammock chair to make my sideline life a bit more comfortable, and wait, do we really need this portable tent for sand volleyball tournaments, why yes we do. It’s like Costco knows we’re already broke from all the sports tuition fees, so what’s another few hundred bucks? Yeah Costco, I see you, and I fall for your trickery every time. Please stop stocking Thin Mint ice cream cookie sandwiches when I’m pms-ing, that’s just cruel. Also, don’t stop.
I suppose that making new friends from your kids’ teams is a perk (and sometimes not) to this circle of hell I have found myself in. Misery loves company, and I have made many friends that are in the same travel sports boat, which often feels like the Titanic, seemingly new and beautiful, and heading full speed ahead into an iceberg. There are definitely good people I’ve met that I trust and cling onto for sanity. The funny thing is, there seems to be a common category of parents, no matter what sport the kids are playing. Let’s break it down: there is the has-been quarterback dad that is too intense and loud even for me, the parent(s) that drink too much during away tournaments, the work-the-room parents that know everything about everyone, the crazy no-filter ones that think it’s okay to tell your kid that they did not play well, the over-sharer that tells you about her ugly divorce that you never asked about, the beautiful mom that still gives a fuck and didn’t get the memo about the mom bod and sports team hoodie uniform, and the resident sports expert that explains all the calls and tries to make sense of what the coach is doing. And no matter which category of parent you fall under, all parents talk mad shit about the coaches, question playing time, and definitely have suggestions as to how to better the team. Most of us don’t coach, we just convinced ourselves that we know better. It’s comical and so true, sometimes you just have to laugh at what you have become. My face looks like all the other faces of youth sport parents, enthusiastic to be here and also wondering how the fuck we got here in the first place. We just shrug our shoulders in resignation and toast our Stanleys with mystery beverages inside, waiting for the ride to end.
So if it is this crazy, why don’t I pull the kids out of the youth sports world and make life normal again? Because the kids love it, and I guess I’m a softy on the inside (apparently, on the outside now too). I must have masochistic tendencies because this schedule is so brutal and punishing, and yet I take the time to manage all of it to make it seamless for them. Gymnastics meets last for 4 hours and my kid performs for 4 minutes. Soccer games are rain or shine and get longer as the kids get older. Basketball and volleyball games are at least indoors, but you don’t know the schedules until 3 days before the tournaments which makes planning any sort of social life impossible. Parking is a bitch at all these places, you have to pay an entrance fee and sit there for hours, not even knowing if your kid will play or not. And then, if you’re like me, you are sweating more than your kid that is actually playing the sport, you are pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, with nervous energy and ready to pounce… on who? I don’t even know, it doesn’t make sense. But ultimately, my kids are happy, have made new friendships, have a healthy outlet for their competitive sides, and they are learning how to balance school work, sports, and a social life. And let’s be real, I am living vicariously through them. I didn’t get this as a kid, and it is fulfilling to see them have these experiences. Also, I get to yell, and I do love a good yelling sesh. For the most part, I keep the yelling at a somewhat positive level, mostly because we’ve been warned by coaches to not coach from the sidelines. I may have said, “You’re handsome…also watch your line, you’re off sides” or “Drink water…and also play your line on defense.” I can’t help myself, I’m sick in the head.
My kids may never be the Bruno Mars or the Pacquiao of youth sports, but I gotta build them up as if they could be. My pride in them is so great, it is the driving force that keeps me pushing through this mayhem. When they tell me they have had enough, I’ll stop. I know when it’s all over and they’ve moved on, I will miss it so much. I will fill that void with endless Netflix and maybe get back in shape (pending Costco’s stocking of Thin Mint ice cream cookie sandwiches). But until then, I am Youth Sports’s bitch, up at 5 A.M. when called for, down for out of state travel, here to wipe away tears, mend injuries, play hype music, give pep talks, and ready to yell, “Yeah that’s my kid out there.”
The Mundame 