I defended my child—even though he might have been wrong

The match went back and forth with each player taking a set. The decider in a junior USTA match is usually a seven point tie-breaker, rather than a third set. Juniors isn’t easy. Tennis might be the only youth sport where there is no coach or umpire helping the kids navigate the inevitable ups and downs that come with playing games. 

The official rule in USTA juniors is that when kids step out onto the court to play, parents must remain silent. There is a tournament director, but that person is usually manning the check-in desk and only comes onto the court if a player puts their racquet down and runs over to him, requesting help with a dispute. In my experience as a tennis mom, this is a rare occurrence. So, kids are left to their own devices, to figure out fair play on their own, despite the fact that their frontal lobes are barely developed. 

My 13-year-old son plays in U14 juniors. In this particular match, he was down in the tiebreak by two points. Stakes were high because he was defending a match point. His opponent served, he returned, the other boy fired the ball down the line, the ball bounced once—or did it bounce twice? 

After he hit the ball back over the net, his opponent stopped play and declared the match was over because the ball bounced twice. In tennis, as you know, there can only be one bounce on each side. 

I have a sensitive, smart, compassionate kid who really struggles with conflict and self-advocacy. Working with him to garner strength to stand up for himself, in his own way, on his own terms has been one of our central family goals this year. Naturally, as I watched the next few minutes unfold, I couldn’t breathe. 

His voice was soft as he said, “It wasn’t a double bounce.” 

“Yes it was!” The other boy raised his voice, slamming his racquet to the ground. 

“I hit it off one bounce.” Still almost a whisper. 

“No you didn’t! It was two bounces.” The boy came around the net, charging toward my son. 

“Even though you stopped, it’s my point.” He stared down at the clay.

“No way! That’s my point and that’s the match!” The boy looked around at the stands full of parents and on-lookers. 

The two teenagers went on like this, bantering helplessly. I watched, also helplessly. Finally, the other boy went to find the tournament director, who decided the two opponents had to redo the last point. 

Another mom in the stands whispered to me, “Did you see it?” I simply shook my head, no. The truth was, I did see it, but couldn’t be sure if it bounced once or twice. It didn’t matter to me either way. In that moment I made a conscious, critical choice: I would stand by my son’s decision unwaveringly, even though I wasn’t completely sure it was correct. 

Another mom sitting behind me whispered, I think it was a double bounce. I didn’t turn around to look at her or respond to her. 

The match went on. I still couldn’t breathe. The boys had a long, final point, ultimately ending with my son hitting the ball out and losing the match. He shook hands with his opponent, then cried in the car, sobbing, “Even when I fight for myself, I lose.” 

There are a lot of great things about youth sports, but like so many things, there exists a toxic underbelly. In Steve Almond’s book, “Against Football,” he explains why, after years as a fan, he can no longer watch the game.

In an interview with Electric Lit he states: “The point of ‘Against Football’ is not just that the game fosters a tolerance for greed and violence and misogyny and militarism. The real intention is to investigate why fans like me, who know all this, still become obsessed, why we give so much of our heads and hearts to this corrupt game.”

When I run down to the town fields on any given August morning, I pass youth football training camp. Kids are out there, rain or shine, preparing for the fall season, and while I would prefer to think that my experience is an anomaly, I wonder how many small towns across America display the same, grueling scene. Grown men screaming at young boys, calling them weak, using expletives, when they are tired, thirsty or simply acting like goofballs. Despite the fact that my husband played football growing up in this very town, we knew that football would not foster our son’s growth. 

Our kid isn’t naturally alpha. He doesn’t always get picked first when the teacher lets two “captains” pick teams at recess (don’t even get me started on that teaching strategy). He is more comfortable lifting up someone else rather than standing in his own glory, and so this small but massive moment on the tennis court was essential to his growth—so I leaned in, hard.

As he cried, I praised him for his bravery. As he wept, I told him everything he felt was spot-on, and that I understood his pain. I sat with him in difficulty. When he was ready, I emphasized that the most important thing was that he flexed a muscle he isn’t used to using, and that the more comfortable he gets with this strain, the more he will grow. 

Because the truth is no one can stand up for you more than you can, no one can fight harder for you than you can fight for yourself. By questioning him, he would have questioned himself. He would have turned deeper into himself rather than blossomed into himself. Minutes passed while we sat together in the parking lot outside the tennis courts. Eventually, we went for ice-cream and drove home listening to a great book. Perhaps an antidote to duress is someone in your corner, who believes you no matter what, and then takes you for ice cream? I certainly think so. 

There are a lot of things I mess up as a Mom, but siding with my son even though he might have been wrong, was absolutely right.