How to Destroy Anyone Who Tries to Destroy Your Child

Not hitting send. More poems. Stoics. Two new songs.

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Last week, my 7-year-old son's Little League coach nominated him to try out for the 7-and-under all-star travel team. It was also a little premature, considering that Ozzy had played six Little League games his entire life, and he’s not ready for this yet and — well I’m being overprotective.

However, unlike the other "tryouts" they had at the beginning of the year, where everyone gets picked for a team, this time it's more competitive – out of 50 kids, only about a dozen will get picked. I hesitated to respond to the invite. I told Julieanne my concerns. "What kind of 7-year-olds have travel all-star teams?" I mean, seriously – it's way too young. Why don’t we just send him off to war?

But the season is short, so having the opportunity to play more throughout the rest of the summer would be great for him. Julieanne said we needed to ask him if he wanted to and let him decide. We did, and he was excited to try out. I gave him the sobering facts — that not everyone will make it. He understood. "If I don't make it this year, I'll make it next year."

Last Sunday was the big day, and I was home with covid, so Julieanne went. I was nervous about it, waiting for the text that he was doing fine, and it was all over, and he had fun.

Throughout most of the afternoon, each time she texted me updates, that was the case. Still, she did say the dads who showed up were a little louder and more intense than the ones we interacted with at his regular-season games. She said some of them were really suffering in angst as their SEVEN-year-old kids ran through two hours' worth of drills, as the other Hoka dads, the ones with clipboards and jerseys with names on their backs, openly sized them up like baby calves at a livestock auction.

"He's having fun, though!" All was well.

A few minutes later, I got a follow-up text from Julieanne that a loudmouth kid told Ozzy in front of other people that he wouldn't make the team.

"Who!" I texted back. "Prick coach [Redacted] 's!" The loudmouth was the head coach of the all-star team's son. Julieanne was furious. And at that moment, my face got hot, and I clenched my chest; it was like I had a stroke. It was my own fury, of course, but also the sad echoes of intramural sports league bullies from my past and their prick fathers engaging in the competitive Neanderthal theater of the American schoolyard. Honestly, I could see how this sort of energy and ruthlessness could be expected at, say, 12-year-old all-star tryouts, but seven? Am I fucked up here? SEVEN?

When they finally got home, I hugged him, and he brushed me off. "Yeah, I know. That kid said something mean and he was wrong. I'm over it." Well, okay then. I'll be over it, too. But was I?