What I Learned About Teen Peer Support From My Son’s Least Favorite Teammate
I’m folding grass-stained practice jerseys and tucking my son’s scuffed soccer cleats into his duffel, leaning against the rusted chain link fence after a rainy Friday game, when I see Jace leaning against my car. He asks if he can wait for his mom there, since she got stuck working late, and I say sure, even though I’m annoyed. Jace is my least favorite teammate on the team by a mile. He yells at refs over every bad call, blames the freshman goalie for every loss, bailed on the pre-playoff pasta dinner last month to go to an out-of-state concert, and never picks up the water coolers after practice. I’d complained to my husband just two days before that his bad attitude had to be rubbing off on the other kids.
Jace pulls out his phone and scrolls while I wait for my son to finish saying goodbye to his coach. A few minutes later, my son walks over with Miles, his best friend since seventh grade. Miles’s eyes are puffy, and he’s shoving his hands so deep in his hoodie pockets his knuckles are white. He’d broken up with his girlfriend two weeks before, after she cheated on him with a quarterback from the rival high school. He’d barely spoken all week, skipped lunch twice, and flunked a math quiz because he hadn’t studied. He’d just seen her and the new guy making out by the concession stand, and he was trying not to cry in front of everyone. My son just stood there patting his back, out of things to say, and I was mentally running through all the dumb things adults say to hurt teens—“it gets better,” “there are other girls”—wondering if I should go over and offer him a soda.
Then Jace pushed off the trunk of my car, and I tensed up. I was sure he’d make a dumb joke, tease Miles for being crushed over a girl, something rude that would make everything worse. Instead, he walked straight over to Miles, pulled up a screenshot on his phone, and held it out. “I saw this pop up on my Instagram feed an hour ago,” he said. “It’s her story from the food court. I blocked her from my story already so you wouldn’t stumble on it by accident. Figured you didn’t need that today.” He paused, then pulled a crumpled pack of sour gum out of his pocket and tossed it to Miles. “My mom’s got extra seats at the wings place down the road. You’re coming. No going home to mope alone, and I don’t wanna hear no about it.”
I stood there staring after the three of them walked to Jace’s mom’s van, and I couldn’t shake the moment all the way home. For months I’d written Jace off as a selfish, rude kid who didn’t care about anyone but himself. But here he was, saying and doing exactly what Miles needed, when none of the adults or even the other “good” kids knew what to do.
That night I talked to my son about it, and I learned things I never knew. Jace’s parents split up last year, and he has to pick up his little sister from elementary school most afternoons, that’s why he’s late to warm ups so often. His own girlfriend cheated on him right after the split, and he spent two weeks moping alone before anyone checked on him. He knew exactly what it felt like to be walking around on edge, waiting to see something that would knock the wind out of you, and he didn’t want Miles to go through that alone.
This experience changed how I think about the kids my son spends time with, and how I show up for hurt kids myself. The first thing I changed is that I stopped offering open-ended help to teens who are hurting. Before, I’d say something like “let me know if you need anything” and leave it at that. But Jace didn’t do that. He fixed the specific problem (the unwanted Instagram story), gave a concrete invitation, and didn’t force Miles to talk about his feelings if he didn’t want to. Now when I know a kid is going through something, I do the same: I’ll drop off a bag of their favorite candy at their house, say “I got an extra ticket to the movie this weekend, want to come?” or just bring up a random video game or show I know they like instead of pushing them to talk about what hurts. It’s way less awkward for everyone, and it works far more often than the generic offers adults usually make.
The second thing I changed is that I stopped writing kids off based on surface-level behavior. I used to sort the kids on the team into two unspoken buckets: good, responsible kids, and bad, rude kids, and I’d quietly encourage my son to spend more time in the first bucket. Now I make a point to ask my son about the kids I’m quick to judge, at least once a week. I don’t forbid friendships anymore, unless there’s actual dangerous behavior involved. Most of the time, the kids who act out are the ones who’ve had the most practice dealing with hard things, so they’re the first ones to show up for someone else who’s hurting. They don’t follow all the unwritten rules adults care about, but they get what really matters when someone needs support.
It’s been three months since that rainy Friday game. Miles is doing okay now, he’s back to hanging out and playing video games after school, and he pulled his math grade back up to a B. Jace still yells at refs, he still misses warm ups sometimes, and he still leaves his empty Gatorade bottles on the bench for someone else to pick up. I still roll my eyes when he does that, honestly. But now when I bring team snacks, I tuck an extra pack of chocolate chip cookies into a bag for him to take home to his little sister. It’s a small thing, but it’s the least I can do after he taught me such a big one. I still don’t love all of Jace’s choices, but I’ll never again write a kid off before I know the whole story.
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