There’s a scene in The Sandlot that every parent remembers, the one where a ragtag group of kids, dusty and sweaty, plays baseball until the sun sets. No coaches. No parents yelling from the stands. Just kids learning, failing, laughing, and building something much bigger than skill: love for the game.
That’s what hockey used to be and what it still can be when adults remember to let it breathe.
The Sandlot Spirit
The Sandlot isn’t really about baseball. It’s about childhood. It’s about how a group of kids comes together through a shared passion and turns it into a summer they’ll never forget. There were no skills coaches, no private lessons, no stats or standings. The lessons came from scraped knees, missed catches, and friendships built through time spent just playing.
That’s what made it beautiful. They owned the game. They didn’t play for approval; they played for joy.
Unsupervised Ice
In hockey, that same magic still exists but mostly on outdoor rinks and in driveways. When a group of kids plays shinny or street hockey, there’s no one telling them where to stand, when to shoot, or what system to run. The leaders emerge naturally. The quiet kids gain confidence. Mistakes become teachers, not punishments.
These moments are pure hockey and they often teach more about the game (and life) than any structured practice ever could.
When Parents Take Over: The Good and the Bad
There’s a delicate balance between supporting and steering.
When parents take over too much, the fun fades. The car ride home becomes a film review, not a conversation. The rink becomes a pressure cooker. The child starts to play for approval rather than enjoyment.
They begin to look to the stands for validation, a nod from dad, a cheer from mom, or quiet pride from an older sibling. And when that doesn’t come, they feel like they’ve failed.
The shift from playing for the love of the game to playing for the approval of others happens quietly, but it changes everything. Passion becomes performance. Joy becomes pressure.
But there’s another side, too. Parental involvement can be incredible when it’s done right. The volunteer coach who gives kids confidence, the parent who floods the backyard rink at midnight, the mom who organizes carpools, or the dad who stands quietly in the corner cheering every kid equally; these parents are the heartbeat of the game.
When adults bring patience, kindness, and perspective instead of pressure, they become part of what makes hockey special. They model respect. They teach resilience. They remind their children that the game is about growth, not glory.
So it’s not that parents shouldn’t be involved it’s that they should remember why they’re involved.
The Power of Letting Go
The best hockey moments, the ones that kids will remember, don’t happen under the fluorescent lights of a structured practice. They happen when the floodlights flicker on at a community rink, and no one’s watching. When they build a net out of recycling bins. When they argue about whether it hit the post or went in, and laugh so hard they forget to keep score.
Parents have a role, of course: to love, to support, to drive, to cheer. But the greatest gift a parent can give their young player is space, space to fail, to lead, to find their own rhythm in the game.
Because when a kid plays for the love of the game, not for the approval of parents, family, or peers, they unlock something sacred: pure, unfiltered passion. That’s what creates lifelong players, and more importantly, lifelong lessons.
A Personal Reflection
I think about this every time I watch my own son out on the ice when no one’s coaching him. No drills. No whistles. Just a group of kids chasing the puck under the cold night air. It’s where he’s most himself, yelling, laughing, trying things he’d never dare to in a game.
One night last winter, I stood at the edge of an outdoor rink and realized something simple but powerful: this is their sandlot. No scoreboard. No evaluations. Just a love for the game, raw and real.
And maybe, as parents, that’s our job, to build the rink, tie the skates, and then step back. To trust that in the chaos of unstructured play, they’ll find everything that matters: creativity, confidence, friendship, and joy. Because long after the scores are forgotten, that’s what will stay with them, the memories of the game when it was theirs alone.
And who knows, maybe one day, we’ll turn on the TV, hear a name we’ve known since they were kids playing shinny behind the school, and smile. Because we’ll remember that before they made it there, they made it here, on their sandlot ice, playing the game they loved, not for approval, but for the pure joy of it.
Author: Geremy Miller