After Every Game, I Say the Same Three Words

You watched it happen from the bleachers.

The pitch came in. The bat swung. The umpire’s hand went up. And somewhere between the dugout and the parking lot, your sweet kid — the one who hugged you before the game and asked if you packed the good snacks — turned into a wall of silence with cleats on.

You buckle in. You start the car.

Now what?

The Three Words That Changed Everything for Me

I used to overthink this moment. What do I say? Do I bring it up? Do I pretend it didn’t happen? Do I wait for him to talk first?

And then somewhere along the way I landed on this:

“Wow, what a game.”

That’s it. That’s my opener every single time now — win, loss, strikeout, home run, doesn’t matter.

It’s not positive spin. It’s not “great job out there!” when it wasn’t. It’s not loaded with anything. It just says: I saw you. Something big happened. I’m here.

And then — right after — I give him options.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

If he says yes, we talk. If he says no, I don’t push. I just say “that’s totally fine — we can always talk later if you want. Now let’s go eat.”

And just like that, we’re moving again.

Options Are Everything

Here’s what I’ve learned about kids in this age range — 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 — they are still figuring out how to name what they feel, let alone talk about it on demand. Some kids need to unpack every play on the way home. Some kids need to stare out the window for twenty minutes before they’re ready to say a single word. Some kids, like mine, go completely quiet and that is just their way.

None of those kids are broken. They’re just different.

Your job isn’t to get them talking. Your job is to make sure they know the door is open — and that it’s okay if they’re not ready to walk through it yet.

Giving them a choice does that. Do you want to talk about it? No? Okay, later works too. You’re not forcing the conversation and you’re not closing it off either. You’re just leaving it unlocked for whenever they’re ready.

And then you pivot to food.

The Food Pivot Is Not Avoidance. It’s a Lifeline.

After a tournament, there is always food. That is a law.

It doesn’t fix the strikeout. It doesn’t process the loss. What it does is say: the world is still good, you are still my kid, and we are going to sit across from each other and eat something and be okay.

That is not a small thing. That is actually the whole thing.

The debrief, the extra practice, the cage work — all of that has a place. Tonight is not that place. Tonight is for resetting, and food is how we do it.

A Few Things That Didn’t Land for Me

I’ll keep this short. You don’t need a list — you’re already a good mom. But these ones burned me, just in case.

“You’ll get it next time.” He’s not ready for next time yet. Let him be in this one for a minute.

“I noticed you weren’t keeping your eye on the ball.” Not in the car. Not today. He already knows.

“It’s just a game.” It is. But it doesn’t feel that way to him right now, and telling a kid his feelings are too big for the situation doesn’t shrink the feelings. It just makes him feel alone in them.

They all came from love. They just didn’t land. Now I know better — and on the days I forget, I give myself grace too.

The Only Thing That Actually Matters in That Car

He is watching you — even when he’s staring out the window.

He is clocking whether you seem disappointed. Whether your love for him feels like it has a scoreboard attached to it.

Make it something good.

How does your car ride home go? Drop it in the comments — the messy versions are welcome here too. We’re all figuring this out together.

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See you at the field,
The Prepared Baseball Mom