The Car Ride Home: A Survival Guide

Do not speak. The car smells like sweat, sunscreen, and defeat. Your kid is in the back seat still in full uniform because they refused to change. They are either staring out the window processing the weekend or already asleep. Either way, the correct move is silence. Turn on music. Something neutral. Not your podcast. Not talk radio. Not the game recap from some guy on Twitter Spaces.

“Why did you swing at that pitch in the third inning?” Do not ask this question. Do not ask any version of this question. Not “What happened on that play?” Not “Did Coach say anything about the lineup?” Not “Do you think you should have bunted?” Your kid already knows what went wrong. They have been replaying it on a loop since it happened. You bringing it up does not help. It has never once helped.

“Are you hungry?” That's it. That's the only question. The answer is always yes. Stop at the first place that isn't a gas station. Let them order whatever they want. This is not the time for nutritional lectures. This is the time for chicken nuggets and a milkshake. The emotional recovery starts with food. It has always started with food.

Your kid went 3-for-4. They made a diving catch. They are buzzing. They want to talk about every at-bat. Let them. Ask follow-up questions. “What were you thinking on that 2-1 pitch?” is allowed when they are happy. Let them relive it for as long as they want. This is why you do all of this.

Do not add coaching notes to a good day. “Great game, but you should work on your lead-off” undoes the entire experience. Just let them have it.

Your kid went 0-for-4 with three strikeouts. They made an error that cost the game. They are in the back seat with their hat pulled down and they have not spoken since the last out. This is the car ride that matters most. Your only job is to be present without being a problem.

If they want to talk, listen. If they don't, that's fine too. What they need to know — and what you communicate by not critiquing — is that your love for them is not connected to their batting average.

If you have a sibling in the car who was dragged to a tournament they didn't care about, they have been patient for approximately 11 hours and they are done. They will start a fight within seven minutes of departure. They will ask “Are we there yet?” before you leave the parking lot. They will need a bathroom at the exact moment you merge onto the highway.

Give the sibling a screen and an apology snack. They earned it.

You will carry everything. The kid will carry nothing. They will walk inside, drop their bag in the middle of the hallway, and disappear into their room. You will unload the car, start laundry, throw away the trash that has accumulated in the back seat like a small landfill, and find a cleat in the cup holder that you are certain was not there when you left.

You will be exhausted. You will be sunburned. And you will already be checking the schedule for next weekend.