After every loss, the criticism rises from the bleachers like smoke. It drifts onto social media, into coffee shops, at the gas station, and even in Sunday pews. Everyone has an opinion on the fate of the team, as if the program rests on the shoulders of teenagers. The truth is, no one feels the sting of a loss more deeply than the players and coaches themselves. They have poured hours into practice, preparation, and sacrifice long before we ever filled the stands.

We forget sometimes, in our frustration, who these athletes really are. High school athletes are still kids. They show up after school, often tired from classwork and other responsibilities, and give their best in front of crowds that sometimes forget that truth. They do not receive scholarships or stipends for putting on a uniform. Yet they carry the weight of representing their schools, their communities, and their families’ legacies.

We are cheering for kids, not professional athletes. Their worth cannot be measured by wins and losses.

We want so much for them to succeed that we pack the stands, huddle over radios, and stream the game as if it were the big broadcast of the week. We cheer for our hometown heroes with pride. But when the game turns, the cheers too often turn to criticism.

As parents and fans, we hold a powerful influence over the atmosphere of these games. It can be disheartening to hear the criticism that spills out when a play does not go right or a call does not go a certain way. Shouts from the stands may fade quickly for the ones speaking them, but for the athletes on the field, those words echo. The game should be about learning discipline, teamwork, resilience, and joy, not about carrying the weight of public scrutiny. True worth is built in the quiet, unseen lessons of showing up again and again.

It is easy to get caught up in the game. Rivalries are tradition. They feed something in us: pride, memory, belonging. But passion can tip into hostility. And while rivalries fuel our spirit, another tension comes quietly from within our own stands: the politics of playing time.

Who starts, who sits, and how long they stay in often becomes its own storyline. It is easy to assume we know better, to point to favoritism, or to compare one child against another. What gets lost in that noise is the truth that every athlete has worked hard.

Coaches see the game through a different lens, shaped by practices, injuries, preparation, and the bigger picture of the team. Their choices are rarely as simple as they seem from the bleachers. Playing time matters, of course, but it should never be confused with a child’s worth or effort.

Officials are human. They make quick calls in fast-moving situations where mistakes are inevitable. The yelling from the crowd will not change the scoreboard, but it does change the spirit of the game for everyone watching and playing.

At its best, high school sports are about more than wins and losses. They are about community: the steady beat of the band echoing off metal bleachers, the smell of popcorn and hot chocolate in the autumn air, grandparents wrapped in blankets, and teammates pulling each other up after a tough play. When we allow frustration, politics, or negativity to take over, we miss what makes these nights so special.

When my son puts on his uniform for the last time under the Friday night lights, I want him to know how proud I am of all he has accomplished. Every time he stepped onto that field, whether to play, to support a teammate, or to simply do his part, I was his biggest fan. Under those lights, he has learned courage, resilience, and the beauty of showing up, not just for himself, but for others. Wins and losses fade, but the discipline to keep going and the character built in hard moments will stay with him long after the lights go out. And what he has learned on that field is what every athlete carries with them.

That is the real gift of these years. Sports shape far more than athletes. They shape sons and daughters who will grow into teammates at work, leaders in their communities, and steady hands in their families. That is the kind of worth that carries beyond the field.

Most of us are not raising professional athletes. We are raising young men and women who will carry the lessons of football, or volleyball, basketball, track, or any sport, into their lives beyond the turf and the court. At the end of the day, it is still kids we are cheering for, and the lessons they take with them will matter far more than the score.

So when the season ends and the uniform is folded away for the last time, my hope is every athlete leaves the field knowing this: their worth was never measured in touchdowns or trophies. It was written in the heart they gave, the effort they showed, and the community they carried on their shoulders. That is their worth beyond wins and losses.