When I tell people that our girls play softball, what I really mean is: our whole family plays softball.
We spend our evenings, weekends, and most of our disposable income at the field.
Sis plays for her high school team and just added a summer/fall travel team to keep her reps up.
Bug’s been with her travel coach for three years now and also plays for our middle school feeder team.
And Smalls? Bless him — I’m pretty sure he went to his first practice two weeks after birth and his first game maybe a month after that. At four months old, I’m not even sure he knows how many sisters he actually has and how many are just honorary. Essie the dog’s in the same boat — she’s been passed around the dugout since she could fit in a catcher’s mitt.
My car is basically a mobile equipment shed: bats, cleats, blankets, bleacher seats, coolers — 90% of the year.
Turf pellets live in every room of our house. We eat more drive-thru than I’m proud to admit, and I’ve broken every polite rule of quietly excusing myself to nurse a baby. I use a cover (per Hubs’ request), but I’ll feed that sweet boy right there in front of God and everybody while I’m running the scoreboard or arguing a bad call with an umpire.
It’s not a life for everyone. We freeze in March and beg for cloud cover in June.
Hubs and I have no personal clothing identity — we wear team colors like uniforms.
Our parents have the Team App so they can schedule grandkid time between games.
Our daughters’ friends know they’re welcome to come with us — but don’t expect weekend plans with them unless it’s a special occasion. We’re not drill sergeants… just realists.
It’s a lot… but it’s our favorite kind of “too much.”
We bond over burnt hot dogs and infield strategy.
We watch our kids become better athletes, better teammates, better people — and they amaze us constantly.
“How Do You Do It?”
People ask us all the time, “How do you do it?”
I guess they mean the traveling, laundry, late nights, early mornings, and gate fees?
But here’s the truth:
We have a second family at the field.
And when your people are in it with you — like, really in it — nothing feels quite so hard.
Because kids’ sports don’t just rely on the players — they thrive on the adults around them.
Still think I’m exaggerating? Ask a sports parent to show you their team group chat.
Now look up that team’s win/loss record.
I guarantee the loudest, most chaotic, “please mute this thread” group chat belongs to the team with the better record. The quieter the parents, the lonelier the team.
From Team to Tribe
There’s something beautiful about watching a team become a family.
In the early days, it’s awkward. Parents still stand a few feet apart in the bleachers.
Kids can’t remember each other’s names or where to throw the ball.
Warm-ups are cautious because looking like a baby giraffe feels more embarrassing than trying.
You’ve got parents talking about the weather just to fill the silence before the game.
But slowly, a shift happens.
It starts when a few key parents decide that this is going to be more than a season — it’s going to be a culture.
I’m not talking extroverts vs. introverts — I’m talking about the people who see the whole team, not just their kid.
They’re easy to spot:
- They learn all the players’ names.
- Their kid never walks off the field asking for a snack — because they’ve already been taught that the coach is in charge during practice.
- They talk to the coach, ask questions, show up early, and respond in the group chat.
- And most importantly? They’re excited to be there.
They know that the team wins or loses together — so the parents might as well do the same.
Real Family Energy
Once those early walls come down, that’s when the magic kicks in.
Remember those people who ask, “How do you manage it all?”
A lot of them are our actual family — and honestly, it’s okay that they don’t get it.
The season we’re in just doesn’t match the one they’re living.
But our softball family? They get it.
They know not to schedule a birthday party on our one off-weekend in three months.
They don’t care about the mess in your car — theirs looks the same.
They check my kid’s water bottle as they pass the dugout, the same way they check their own.
They cheer for her like she’s theirs, and they’ll call her out if she’s being a sass.
Their kids walk into our house and head straight to the pantry or grab a blanket and crash on the couch.
Because we’re all in it, all together.
A Story Worth Repeating
One of my favorite memories?
A tournament about 10 minutes from our house. Bug was in her second season with her travel team.
It was high school homecoming weekend, and our coach’s daughter (same age as Sis) brought all her stuff to get ready for the dance — at the ballpark.
She wasn’t even mad about it. Slightly annoyed, maybe, but not upset.
Sis was headed to the same dance, and since we were close to home, I offered to take both girls back to get ready.
Katie (the coach’s wife) stayed at the field, and I played hair stylist and chauffeur.
Nobody felt like they were missing out. They felt loved, seen, and cared for.
Because they were.
These girls fight like siblings now — but they also love like family.
They back each other up.
They hold each other accountable.
They’ve cried together, celebrated together, grown up together.
Our softball family has become so intertwined we spend holidays together now.
Our coach and his wife are Smalls’ Godparents.
Maybe your tribe won’t go quite that far.
But trust me — having a group that gets it, sees your family, and shows up anyway?
That, my friends, is how we do it.
Gospel & Grit 
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