Hey there, all you committed sports moms! I could really use your wisdom. I see you on the sidelines, decked out in team gear, armed with snacks and water bottles, radiating enthusiasm like it’s the Super Bowl. I’ll be honest—I’m a bit envious. As much as I wish I could join your ranks, there’s one glaring truth about me: I’m not meant to be a sports mom.
First off, I’ve never been a fan of sports—not even a tiny bit. In gym class, I was always the last kid picked for teams because, well, let’s just say my coordination was a little… lacking. I wouldn’t have joined a sports team in high school, even if it came with a full college scholarship and a magical boost in my social life.
Now, as an adult, I’m blissfully unaware of which teams are in the playoffs or who’s vying for the Super World Series Bowl or whatever it’s called. Honestly, I could happily exist in a sports-free bubble. But here’s the kicker: I have four boys. Apparently, the universe thought it would be hilarious to give me a household full of future athletes. So, when two of my sons recently begged to sign up for basketball, I reluctantly agreed.
And that’s how I found myself plunged into the world of competitive sports. Right off the bat, I realized that my cushy butt is not cut out for hard bleachers. There was also that one practice where I was crammed in like a sardine amongst other parents, unable to even see my own child, just a sea of heads blocking my view.
Then there are the other kids. Most of my sons’ teammates are decent, but there are always a few who seem to have taken a crash course in bad behavior. I can’t lose my cool as a parent, but watching my kid get elbowed out of the way or have the ball snatched from his hands during warm-ups is a special kind of torture.
And let’s talk about sharing. My son is always eager to lend a basketball to others, which makes it all the more infuriating when he’s left standing empty-handed while others hog the equipment. During practice, when one of the taller kids impatiently clapped at my son and shouted, “Come onnn!” I had to count to ten instead of imagining a throat punch.
I know I can’t shield my kids from every rude player they encounter; they need to learn how to handle it. But sitting back and watching it all unfold—especially on those unforgiving bleachers—well, it’s just hard.
Then there’s the performance anxiety. Watching my kids play makes me sweat more than if I were on stage doing karaoke. I want so desperately for them to shine and feel confident that I end up on edge, worrying about their every move on the court.
All this adds up to make the thought of enduring bi-weekly practices and weekend games feel like a personal form of torture. And I’m told this is the “easy” commitment! I know parents who spend entire weekends bouncing from one game to another, racking up bills for gear and uniforms. Honestly, I’d prefer to invest in a decent basketball hoop for our driveway and watch my kids practice in peace—where I can yell at them in the comfort of our home!
So, it looks like team sports are here to stay in my life. Like any loving mom, I’ll show up to every practice and game to support my boys, even if it’s not my cup of tea. But sports moms, I could really use some advice—or maybe just a good sedative.
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Summary
The author shares her struggles with fitting into the role of a sports mom, expressing a lack of interest in sports and discomfort with the competitive atmosphere surrounding her sons’ basketball practices. Despite her apprehensions, she acknowledges the importance of supporting her children and navigating the challenges of being a sports parent.