Tournament Packing List: What Nobody Tells You

Every travel ball parent has their own packing list. Most of them are missing the same ten things. Here's what you actually need for a tournament weekend, compiled from years of watching people learn the hard way.

The Obvious Stuff (That People Still Forget)

Batting gloves (plural). They will get wet, rip, or be lost in the first three innings. Bring at least two pairs.

Cleats and turf shoes. Because you will not know which field surface you're on until you get there, and getting there might be 6 AM on a Saturday.

Sunscreen. You will not remember to apply it until you already look like a lobster. Set a phone alarm. Reapply at lunch. Your future dermatologist will thank you.

A hat or visor. For the parent. You are sitting in direct sun for 6+ hours. This is not optional.

The Stuff Nobody Mentions

Cash. The snack bar does not take Venmo. The snack bar barely takes debit cards. Bring $40 in small bills because your kid will need food roughly once per inning.

A portable phone charger. Your phone will die from checking the bracket, the weather, the GameChanger app, and texting the group chat. A dead phone at a tournament is a survival situation.

Zip ties and duct tape. For the pop-up tent that will break in exactly the way you didn't expect. Also works for lawn chair repairs, bag handle fixes, and temporary cleat surgery.

A camping chair with a cup holder. Bleachers are a suggestion. After the second game, you will want your own chair. After the fourth game, you will want a recliner. Settle for the chair.

A gallon Ziploc for wet stuff. Wet socks. Wet jerseys. Wet batting gloves. The car ride home will smell like a locker room regardless, but the Ziploc buys you 20% less odor.

The Emotional Packing List

Patience. The schedule will change. Games will run late. The bracket will not make sense. Patience is the only item on this list you cannot buy at the gas station on the way.

Low expectations for meals. You will eat a $7 hot dog. It will be the worst hot dog of your life. You will eat it standing up in 93-degree heat next to a porta-potty. You will be grateful for it.

A short memory. Your kid struck out twice. The ump missed a call. The other team's pitcher was definitely older than the listed age. Let it go before you get to the car. The kid already has.

Perspective. Five years from now your kid will remember the team dinners, the hotel pool, and the walk-off hit — not the 0-for-3 in pool play. Pack your perspective right next to the cooler.

Print this out. Tape it to the garage door. Check it Friday night. You'll still forget something, but at least it won't be the charger.

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