In A League of Their Own, Tom Hanks famously shouts, “There’s no crying in baseball!” It’s one of those lines that’s become part of sports folklore , a symbol of the old-school belief that emotions don’t belong in the game.
But hockey? Hockey is different.
Especially at the younger levels, the rink is a living classroom of emotion. Kids cry when they lose, when they miss a pass, when they get yelled at, or when they think they’ve let their teammates down.
And anyone who’s been around youth hockey has seen it, that moment when a player takes their first penalty. They sit in the box, eyes wet, shoulders hunched, feeling the weight of those two minutes more than any adult ever could.
They’re not crying because they’re hurt. They’re crying because they care.
That’s not weakness. That’s heart.
The Beautiful Mess of Emotion
Hockey demands everything. It’s cold, fast, and relentless. Every mistake is public. There’s nowhere to hide. So when a young player feels overwhelmed, frustrated, angry, disappointed , it’s not a failure of character. It’s proof of investment.
Emotion, especially raw emotion, is part of the process. You can’t love the game deeply and stay detached. Every goal matters. Every missed chance cuts deep.
And for some kids, that fire burns hotter than for others.
When Caring Too Much Looks Like Anger
I’ve lived this up close.
My son was once told by a coach that he was too angry. That winning doesn’t matter. That his competitiveness. The same drive that made him skate harder, battle in corners, and hold himself to impossible standards “needed
professional help.”
That season, he broke three sticks. Ten or eleven years old, overwhelmed by frustration he didn’t yet know how to manage.
But here’s the truth I’ve learned since: anger, in kids who care deeply, is just emotion that hasn’t yet found its direction.
It’s passion without perspective. Fire without focus.
And while that can look messy, even alarming, it’s not something to shame or suppress. It’s something to guide.
When my son’s coach said “winning doesn’t matter,” I understood what he meant, that development and fun should come first. But for a kid who’s wired to compete, telling them winning doesn’t matter can sound like nothing matters.
For them, caring is the point. The lesson isn’t to stop caring, it’s to care the right way.
So we worked on it together. We talked after games, during long car rides, in quiet moments when the frustration still lingered. We didn’t try to extinguish the fire. We learned how to direct it.
Turning Emotion Into Fuel
Every player who loves this game deeply will hit that wall, when caring too much feels like it hurts.
That’s where the real growth begins.
1. Acknowledge the emotion.
Don’t rush to fix it. Don’t tell them to “calm down.”
Say, “I get it. You’re upset because you wanted more and that’s okay.”
Naming emotion helps kids feel seen, not judged.
2. Teach them that effort is controllable.
You can’t control the bounce, the ref, or the scoreboard. But you can control your effort.
When a player learns that, emotion turns into drive instead of despair.
3. Redefine what “winning” means.
Sometimes the win isn’t on the scoreboard. it’s in handling adversity, playing with discipline, or learning restraint. Help them find the victory in the lesson.
4. Make space for recovery.
Not every talk has to happen immediately. Sometimes kids need silence. Let the emotion settle before the learning begins.
5. Model it yourself.
If they see you lose your cool in the stands, they’ll think that’s normal. But if you can breathe through the hard moments, they’ll learn to do the same.
The Penalty Box Moment
That two-minute penalty; especially the first one, can feel like a lifetime.
A lonely place filled with regret, reflection, and sometimes tears.
But it’s also a sacred space of growth.
That’s where a young player learns self control. Where emotion meets consequence. Where anger, guilt, and pride collide and start to reshape into accountability.
It’s in those quiet, tear-filled minutes that kids start to understand that hockey isn’t just about scoring goals, qit’s about learning who you are under pressure.
The Role of Parents
Parents have the hardest job of all: watching their child feel pain and knowing not to rescue them from it.
After the game, on the drive home, those emotions still linger. The anger. The disappointment. The what-ifs.
That’s when our words matter most.
Instead of saying, “You have to control your temper,” try:
“I can tell that really mattered to you. Let’s talk about what we can do next time.”
Anger becomes manageable when it’s understood, not punished.
And sometimes, the lesson takes years. My son didn’t stop caring. He just learned how to turn that care into composure — how to channel that same intensity into leadership, focus, and accountability.
That’s the gift hockey gives, if we’re patient enough to let it unfold.
When Emotion Becomes Strength
With time, the crying, the frustration, and the broken sticks give way to something powerful: self-awareness.
The same kid who once slammed his stick after a bad shift learns to skate off, breathe, and reset.
That’s not a loss of emotion, it’s mastery of it.
That’s what sport is meant to teach.
The tears of an eight-year-old in the penalty box and the fire of an eleven-year-old breaking sticks are both steps on the same journey, one that leads to resilience, confidence, and empathy.
A Hockey Dad’s Reflection
I’ve learned that there is crying in hockey. And sometimes yelling. And even anger.
But all of it, every tear, every broken stick, every tough conversation in the car is part of the process of growing up through the game.
My son still plays with fire. I hope he always does.
Because that emotion, that raw intensity, is what makes him care. And caring deeply, even when it hurts, is what makes hockey, and life, worth showing up for.
So no, Tom Hanks was wrong.
There is crying in hockey.
And thank G-d for that.
Author: Geremy Miller