Why Kind Kids Hold Back In Games: Lessons From A Lower School Dodgeball Tournament
The whistle blew, and a red rubber dodgeball came flying at my 8-year-old’s left shoulder, catching him mid-giggle as he hid behind a shorter teammate on the court. I was leaning against the scuffed gym bleachers, half-holding a stack of sign-in sheets for the PTA, my sneakers sticking a little to the waxed floor that smelled like old goldfish crackers and floor polish. It was the annual lower school dodgeball tournament, the first one our district has held post-pandemic, and every parent in the stands was yelling a little too loud, waving homemade signs covered in glitter glue.
I noticed Lila, the third grader who lives two blocks down from me, right away. I’d watched her chase my loose dog down the street last summer, and she can outrun most middle school kids on the block. At recess, she’s the one who organizes the dodgeball games, and I’d seen her throw a ball hard enough to knock a hat off a kid’s head from halfway across the blacktop. But that morning in the tournament? She was tossing the ball like it was a foam beach ball. When she got a clear shot at an opposing player, she lobbed it slow enough that anyone could catch it mid-air. Within three minutes, half her team was out, and they lost the first round.
After the game, I was walking around picking up discarded water bottles to bring to the recycling bin, and I stopped near the bleachers where Lila was talking to her teacher, Ms. Henderson. Lila was picking at a loose thread on her gym shirt, and she mumbled, “Last month I threw it at Zoe and she fell backward and scraped her knee. She cried and had to go to the nurse. I don’t want to do that again.”
Ms. Henderson didn’t laugh or tell her she was being silly. She just nodded toward the empty cinder block wall at the end of the gym and said, “Come show me how hard you can throw, just at the wall, okay?” Lila walked over, wound up, and threw the ball so hard it bounced off the wall and almost hit a clipboard on the bench. Ms. Henderson said, “Wow, that’s a really great throw. I can see why you’d worry that would hurt someone. Today, what if you aim only for people’s lower legs or their sneakers? That way you can play hard, and if anyone does get upset, I’m right here to help them. It’s okay to play hard when the game asks you to.”
I stood there for a minute, thinking about my own son, Leo. After his first game, he’d come over to me and said he got a clear shot at Javi, the new kid who joined class last month, but he didn’t take it. “He hasn’t played dodgeball before,” Leo said. “I didn’t want him to feel bad when he got out.” I’d hugged him and told him that was really kind, which it was. But I also noticed he spent the rest of the game hiding behind other kids, never taking a shot, even when his team begged him. I’d been telling him “don’t throw too hard, you’ll hurt someone” since he was little, just like every other parent. I never stopped to think that message was turning into “don’t play hard at all, because if you try your best you might hurt someone’s feelings or body.”
That’s the thing no one talks about when we talk about raising kind kids. We spend so much time telling them to be careful not to hurt others, we don’t give them a roadmap for how to be kind and still participate fully. After the tournament, I talked to Ms. Henderson about it, and she gave me a few small things I started trying at home that have worked really well.
First, instead of the vague “don’t throw too hard,” we name the specific safe target. I tell Leo, “Aim for legs and feet only,” instead of telling him to hold back. That lets him throw as hard as he can, as long as he’s aiming somewhere that won’t knock someone over or hurt their face. It’s a small shift, but it removes all the confusion about what’s okay. Second, we name the conflict he’s feeling out loud. Kids this age can’t always put that tension into words—they just know they feel bad taking a shot. I started saying, “I know it feels scary to throw hard because you don’t want anyone to get upset. That’s such a good thing that you care that much about other people. Let’s figure out how to play hard and keep everyone safe.” Validating that his kindness is good, instead of telling him he’s being too soft, takes away the pressure. Third, if he’s nervous, we practice throwing hard at a fence or a wall in the backyard first, just like Ms. Henderson did with Lila. That lets him feel what a hard throw feels like without the worry of hitting someone, and it builds his confidence to try it in the game.
I watched Lila’s second game that afternoon, after she talked to Ms. Henderson. She took a clear shot at a boy’s sneaker, threw hard, and got him out. He laughed and waved as he walked off the court, no tears, no hurt feelings. Lila grinned and pumped her fist, and for the rest of the game she played like I’d seen her play at recess—fast, loud, fun. They ended up losing in the quarterfinals, but Lila didn’t even seem upset. She was just happy she got to play.
Last weekend, we had a neighborhood dodgeball game in our backyard, and Leo got a clear shot at our 6-year-old neighbor. I saw him hesitate, then he remembered our rule, aimed for her ankle, and got her out. She laughed and chased him around the yard with another ball, and Leo spent the whole rest of the game running and throwing, not hiding once.
We still have days where he holds back, and I don’t push him if he really doesn’t want to take a shot. This isn’t about turning every quiet, kind kid into a competitive athlete. It’s just about letting them know that their kindness doesn’t have to come at the cost of their own fun. It’s a small lesson I never expected to learn from an elementary school dodgeball tournament, but it’s one that’s stuck with me.
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