The moment

You drive home and you already know — somewhere in the first five minutes of drills, they were somewhere else. You didn’t see it. You just know. They went through the motions. They got the reps. They came home fine.

The insight

The games get built on Tuesdays. Not in the obvious way — not just the physical reps, but the mental ones. An athlete who is physically present but mentally absent during practice isn’t developing the focus they’ll need when it matters. The brain consolidates what it was actually paying attention to. Showing up in a body is not the same as showing up. The gap between going-through-the-motions and deliberate practice is where ceiling gets set.

Sometimes this happens across a whole season — not just a Tuesday. The athlete who’s logging reps without logging presence. Worth knowing if that’s where you are.

One thing to try

Before drop-off on a low-stakes practice day, ask one specific question:

What’s one thing you want to work on today?

Not what the coach is running. Not what the team needs. What they want to get better at. It takes ten seconds. It shifts them from passenger to participant before they walk in the door. The drill looks identical from the outside. What’s different is where their attention is.

285 Pregame issues are now searchable at thepregame.to.

Search by moment — the car ride, the night before, the ride home after a bad one. Or by landmark: tryout windows, injury windows, the grind week, the end of a season.

Every issue is one moment, one insight, one thing to try.

If something’s been on your mind about your athlete — there’s probably an issue for it.

→ Browse the library at thepregame.to

Your athlete has been working toward this for ten years. The commitment is signed. The school is chosen. Somewhere on a wall in your house, there’s a photo from signing day.

And now there’s a summer between where they were and where they’re going.

It’s not preseason yet. It’s not high school anymore. It’s 90 days of workouts and showcases and training sessions happening in front of coaches who haven’t decided what to think of them yet — coaches who will be watching, evaluating, forming first impressions they can’t take back.

You’ve navigated a lot of pregame windows. The morning of a big game. Tournament weekends. The car ride after a bad loss. You know what to do with those. You’ve had years of practice.

This one is different. The room they’re walking into — the team, the culture, the coaching staff — is entirely new. The identity they built over the last decade doesn’t transfer automatically. They have to earn their place from scratch. And for the first time, the preparation they need is preparation you can’t do with them.

That’s the window we want to write about.

We’re building a series of Pregame issues around the specific moments parents of college-bound athletes face in the summer before freshman year — the moments that don’t have a name yet, but that every parent in this situation is already living.

The parents who read this newsletter notice things other parents walk past. That’s why I’m asking you, not running a survey.

With your commitments made and the fall is coming — what’s the summer feeling like? Not the workouts, not the logistics. The moment you noticed something had shifted. The car ride where something was different. The conversation that caught you off guard.

Leave your summer before experience in the comments. The more specific, the better. What you name here becomes the pregame issues we’ll write next.

The moment:

The season ended two weeks ago. You didn’t realize it was the last game when you watched it. Now the gear is still in the bag by the door — cleats, shin guards, the water bottle with the team sticker on it. Your athlete hasn’t touched it. Neither have you. The house is quieter on Saturdays. You’re not sure if they’ve noticed, or if they’re just not saying.

The insight:

Athletes build their identity around the structure of a season — practice days, game days, the team, the routine. When it ends, that structure disappears all at once. What looks like a quiet kid is often a kid whose sense of self just lost its scaffolding. It’s not sadness exactly. It’s disorientation. And it passes on its own, but only if the space is allowed to be empty for a while first.

One thing to try:

Leave the bag by the door for another week. Don’t rush to clean it out or ask what’s next. When they’re ready to move, they’ll move — and they’ll tell you, or they won’t, but it’ll be their timing. If you want to say something, say this: “Good season.” Two words. That’s enough.

If you’re in this moment right now — or heading into it — there are more issues like this one at pregame.to. Describe what’s happening with your athlete in one sentence. It finds the right one.

Find the pregame for your moment

The moment:

Preseason and your daughter is navigating two versions of herself at once. At practice she’s physical, loud, competitive, focused. Away from practice she’s something else — more careful, more managed, more aware of being watched differently. You see the gear-shift happen.

She hasn't named it yet. But you've seen it — on the way to the field she's one thing, in the parking lot after with her non-sport friends nearby, she's something else.

The insight:

Female athletes in adolescence often experience real tension between the identity that sport builds — aggressive, strong, space-taking — and the identity their social world rewards outside of it. These aren’t imagined pressures. They come from real signals in real environments. When the two identities pull against each other, some athletes manage it by shrinking one. They become less at practice so they can be more outside it. Or they disconnect from their non-sport self entirely. Neither is the goal. The goal is an athlete who can carry both.

One thing to try:

When she talks about sport in front of people outside her team, don’t smooth it over or translate it down. Let her be the athlete in the room. If she says she scored or won or crushed a rep, don’t minimize it to make it more palatable for the audience. Your reaction signals what she’s allowed to own.

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The moment:

You pull up to the facility. They get out of the car without saying much. You watch them walk toward the doors — head down, bag over one shoulder, moving like someone who's carrying something you can't see. They don't look back. You sit there for a moment after they go inside, engine running, not sure whether to drive away or wait.

The insight:

Tryouts ask athletes to perform their best in the environment most likely to produce their worst. The evaluators are strangers. The stakes feel total. The other kids are competition. Every signal in the room says: you are being measured. That's not a performance environment — it's a threat environment. What they carry in from that moment is the last input before it all starts.

One thing to try:

Before they get out of the car, say one thing and make it specific to them — not to the tryout. Not "you've got this" or "show them what you can do." Something like: "I'll be right here at four." Or just their name and nothing else. The message isn't encouragement. It's that you're still the same person you were this morning, and so are they. That's the only thing worth carrying in.

The moment:

The bracket dropped tonight. Your athlete found it before you did — you could tell by the way they went quiet at dinner. They know who you play first. They’ve heard things about that team. You didn’t bring it up and neither did they, but it’s been in the room ever since. Now it’s 10pm and the tournament starts tomorrow and there’s a version of tonight where nobody sleeps well.

The insight:

A bracket makes the season concrete in a way that regular games don't. Suddenly there's a path, and an end, and teams with names attached to outcomes. The brain starts running scenarios — who you might face in the semis, what happens if you lose the first game. The thinking runs all night with no interruption unless something narrows it down. Tournaments feel different because they are different.

One thing to try:

Tonight, before they go to bed, say this once:

Not a speech — one sentence. It doesn’t minimize the bracket or pretend the stakes aren’t real. It just narrows the window from the whole tournament down to the only game that actually exists right now. Then let it go. The sentence does its work whether they respond to it or not.

The moment:

It’s the second half. Your athlete gets the ball and does something wrong — the thing you’ve been watching them do wrong for three weeks. You know exactly what happened. You can see it from where you’re standing. You say something from the sideline — not loud, just enough. They don’t react. But you saw their shoulders change.

The insight:

The sideline is the hardest place to be in youth sports. You’re close enough to see everything, far enough to do nothing about it. That gap — between knowing and not being able to fix it — is where most sideline behavior comes from. It’s not impatience or bad intentions. It’s proximity without control, and it produces a kind of noise your athlete can hear even when you think you’re being quiet. Their nervous system is already running high. Yours adds to it.

One thing to try:

Pick one thing to say the whole game — and make it physical, not evaluative. Not “good job” or “come on” or anything that sounds like a grade. Something like “let’s go” or their name, said the same way every time. One phrase, same volume, same tone. It gives you somewhere to put the energy that would otherwise come out as commentary. And it gives them a signal that’s steady instead of one that moves with the game.

The moment:

The game ended badly. You both know it. They get in the car, close the door, and stare straight ahead. You pull out of the parking lot. The silence has a weight to it. You want to say something — not to fix it, just to acknowledge it. You’re not sure if that helps or makes it worse.

The insight:

How the ride home goes teaches your athlete something about how to handle a hard result. Not because of what you say — because of what you don’t. An athlete who loses and then sits in silence with a calm parent is learning that a bad game is survivable. That the relationship doesn’t change. That there’s no emergency.

One thing to try:

Say nothing for the first ten minutes. No observations, no silver linings, no “you’ll get them next time.” Just drive. If they want to talk, they’ll start. If they don’t, let it be quiet. When you do speak, make it about something unrelated — food, the drive, anything. The message isn’t in your words. It’s in what you didn’t need to say.

The moment:

Tryouts are in two days. Your athlete has been cut before — not last year, maybe the year before — but you both remember it. They haven’t said anything. Neither have you. There’s a version of the next 48 hours where nobody talks about it and everybody’s thinking about it.

The insight:

A prior cut changes how this tryout feels before it starts. The brain has already filed it under threat — not because your athlete is fragile, but because that’s what brains do with experiences that hurt. That’s state, not destiny. And state going into a tryout is influenceable. What matters now is what you do with the next 48 hours.

One thing to try:

Focus entirely on this tryout, this version of them. Don’t bring up the last cut. Not as a rule you announce — just as something you decide quietly, for the next 48 hours. If they bring it up, don’t minimize it and don’t match the weight of it. Just redirect: “That was then. What does ready look like for you this time?” That question moves them from what already happened toward something they can actually work with.

The moment:

First practice of the season. You pick them up afterward. They get in the car and they’re quiet — not tired quiet, something else. You ask how it went. “Fine.” You ask who was there. “Everyone.” You try one more. They look out the window. You drive home mostly in silence.

The insight:

First practices are a lot to process. New roster dynamics, new expectations, a whole season ahead that hasn’t sorted itself out yet. Quiet after isn’t withdrawal — it’s the brain doing inventory. Asking questions right away, even good ones, adds to the load. Sometimes the most useful thing is just to be a calm presence while they work through it.

One thing to try:

Ask one specific question instead of a general one: “What was one thing you noticed today?” Not “how did it go” — that’s too big to answer. One thing is small enough to actually respond to. It opens the door without crowding them through it. If they don’t answer, that’s fine too.

The moment:

Showcase weekend. Three college coaches are standing near the sideline with clipboards. Your athlete knows they’re there. You can tell by the way they carried themselves through warmup — a little stiffer, a little more deliberate. Like they were performing warmup instead of just doing it.

The insight:

When athletes know they’re being evaluated, attention turns inward. Instead of playing, they start watching themselves play — monitoring every touch, every decision — and the game gets smaller. That divided focus is what coaches actually see on the sideline. Not a worse player. A player who’s trying to look like themselves instead of just being themselves.

One thing to try:

The night before, say this once: “The coaches came to see you play — not to see you perform for them. Play for the game. That’s what they’re looking for.” Then don’t bring it up again in the morning. One clear frame the night before is more useful than a pep talk at the field

The moment:

Warmup ends. The team comes off the field. Your athlete walks over, grabs water, and sits down. Something shifted. Two minutes ago they looked loose and ready. Now they look flat. Like the energy leaked out somewhere between the last drill and the opening whistle.

The insight:

The gap between warmup and kickoff is its own psychological zone — and most athletes have no plan for it. Warmup builds energy. The wait can drain it. Without something deliberate to do in that window, most athletes just sit with their thoughts. And under pressure, thoughts tend to go backward — to the last mistake, the missed shot, the thing that went wrong in practice. The gap isn’t neutral. It’s where readiness leaks.

One thing to try:

Help your athlete find one thing they do every time in that window — a phrase they say to themselves, a breath, a physical cue like rolling their shoulders back. It doesn’t matter what it is. What matters is that it’s theirs and it’s the same every time. Routine tells the brain: I’ve been here before. I know what comes next.

The moment:

It’s 10:30pm. Big game tomorrow. You can hear them moving around upstairs — getting up for water, adjusting the pillow, quiet but awake. You consider going in. You think about telling them to sleep. You don’t. You lie there wondering if you should.

The insight:

Making the sleeplessness into a problem is what makes it a problem. An athlete lying awake before a big game is doing something normal — their body is registering that tomorrow matters. The night before isn’t the time to fix anything. It’s the time to let the feeling exist without adding a crisis on top of it.

One thing to try:

Don’t intervene. Same bedtime, same routine, no special check-ins. If they come to you, keep it short: “That happens sometimes. You’ve done the work.” Then send them back. The goal isn’t a perfect night’s sleep — it’s one less thing they have to manage before the game even starts.

The moment:

You say something encouraging on the way to the field. “You’ve been working so hard.” “This is your moment.” “I know you’re going to be great today.” You mean every word. They nod, look out the window, go quiet. Something landed wrong. You’re not sure what.

The insight:

Positive pressure is still pressure. When you tell an athlete they’re going to be great, you’re not just encouraging them — you’re also telling them what you expect. They feel that. Even “I believe in you” can arrive as “don’t let me down.” Intent doesn’t change the signal received.

One thing to try:

Replace the encouragement with a question: “How do you want to feel out there today?” Then listen. Don’t follow up with advice. The question shifts their attention from your expectations to their own readiness — which is the only thing that actually helps them going in.

The moment:

You pull into the parking lot. Ten minutes early, which felt like enough. Now it doesn’t. Cleats need tying. The bag is wrong. Someone forgot the shin guards. By the time your athlete jogs toward the field, the last five minutes have been noise and scramble. They don’t look back.

The insight:

The transition from car to field is its own moment — and most families lose it to logistics. How an athlete walks onto the field sets the tone for how they warm up. How they warm up shapes how they feel at kickoff. The parking lot isn’t neutral. Arriving rushed tells the body: we’re already behind.

One thing to try:

Leave ten minutes earlier than you think you need to. Not to do more — to do less. Let them walk in slowly. Let them find their teammates. Let the transition be quiet. A calm arrival is the first rep of their pregame routine, even if nobody calls it that.

The moment:

It’s the morning of the game. Your kid hasn’t eaten much. You ask if they’re okay. They say “I’m fine” in a way that means they’re not fine. You don’t push. But you notice.

The insight:

Appetite drops when the nervous system is activated. Your athlete isn’t being difficult — their body is doing exactly what bodies do before high-stakes moments. The stomach tightens. Food feels wrong. It’s threat response, not a problem. The fact that they’re feeling it means the game matters to them.

One thing to try:

Don’t make the food a thing. Offer something small and familiar — a banana, toast, whatever they normally like. Put it in front of them without comment. If they eat it, good. If they don’t, let it go. The goal before a game isn’t a full stomach. It’s one less thing to negotiate.

It’s 8:47am on a Saturday.

You’re in the car. Cleats are in the back. Your kid is quiet, staring out the window. You don’t know if they’re focused or nervous or just tired.

You want to say something helpful.

So you do.

“Just play your game.” “Have fun out there.” “Remember what we worked on.”

They nod. You’re not sure it landed. You turn up the radio.

Twenty minutes later, they jog onto the field. And you realize: that car ride was the last private moment you had with them before the game started.

What you did with it mattered more than you think.

What’s actually happening in that car

The pregame window — roughly 60 to 90 minutes before competition — is when an athlete’s brain is doing something specific.

It’s running predictions.

What’s going to happen today? Am I ready? What if I mess up? Who’s watching? What does this game mean?

These predictions shape state — the internal mix of tension, energy, focus, and feeling that determines how a player actually plays. Not skill. State.

And here’s what most parents don’t know: state is influenced. It’s not fixed. The car ride isn’t neutral. The silence, the conversation, the energy in that car — it’s all input.

The question isn’t whether you’re shaping your athlete’s pregame state. You are. The question is how.

What helps (and what doesn’t)

Quiet beats commentary.

Most parents talk more than they should on the way to a game. Not because they don’t care — because they do. They want to help. So they fill the silence with reminders, encouragement, strategy.

But for most athletes, that input lands as pressure. Even when it’s positive. “You’ve got this” can read as: I need you to have this.

If your athlete is quiet on the way to the game, match them. Let the silence be. You don’t need to fill it.

Routine beats inspiration.

The worst thing you can do before a big game is make it feel different.

Pep talks, special playlists, “this is your moment” energy — it signals that this game is bigger than usual. Which means the stakes feel higher. Which means the threat response starts earlier.

Boring is better. Same coffee shop. Same drive. Same music. The familiar is calming. It says: this is just another game, and you know how to play games.

Questions beat advice.

If they do want to talk — and some athletes need to — the most helpful thing you can ask is also the simplest:

“How are you feeling about today?”

Not “are you nervous?” (that names a threat). Not “are you ready?” (that requests a performance). Just: how are you feeling.

Then listen. Don’t fix what they say. You don’t need to. The act of naming a feeling reduces its grip. You’re not solving — you’re helping them hear themselves.

Arrival beats rushing.

The car ride ends in the parking lot. And the parking lot is where most pregame state gets wrecked.

Gear scramble. Late arrival. “Where’s your water bottle?” energy.

Try to arrive ten minutes earlier than you think you need to. Let them walk in slowly. Let them find their people. The transition from car to field matters — don’t let logistics swallow it.

What this isn’t

This isn’t about becoming a sport psychologist. It’s not about analyzing your athlete or running a protocol on them.

It’s about recognizing that you already have influence in this moment — and using it with a little more intention.

Your athlete doesn’t need a prepared speech. They need to feel like you’re calm, present, and not waiting to evaluate how they perform.

What you’re actually building

When the car ride is quiet and easy, week after week, something accumulates.

Your athlete starts to associate game days with steadiness — not pressure. They learn that the way to the field is calm. That you’re not measuring them. That the car is a safe space, not a final briefing.

That pattern takes time. But it starts the next time you pull out of the driveway.

One more thing.

If they have a bad game today, they’re still the same kid you drove there.

That doesn’t need to be said out loud. They’ll feel it in how you act on the ride home.

But it’s worth remembering before the game even starts.

What’s your car ride like?