For Years, I Built It. This Time, I Just Watched.

This weekend reminded me that growth isn’t linear, presence is enough, and the best thing we can do is give our kids the space to surprise us.

This past weekend, I spent my time watching the boys compete in their hometown soccer tournament. Each of them played five games over a three-day stretch.

For the first time in thirteen years, I wasn’t in charge of the tournament. And for the first time since 2009, I wasn’t consumed by working it. It felt different; there were no schedules to manage and no fires to put out. Just a dad on the sidelines, moving from field to field,

This weekend was a family affair. Rocco (right) and Giovanni (left), celebrating with their most ardent supporters (and cousins).

watching with joy as the games played out.

Since stepping down as Executive Director of the club in April, I’ve been able to be present with my boys, and my wife, in ways I couldn’t before, especially around the soccer field.

As I settled into the new normal of the weekend, I noticed things I hadn’t previously.

When the final whistle of Giovanni’s championship game blew, I saw something rare: excitement radiating from a kid who rarely shows it. Gio is naturally stoic, almost to a fault. Even after scoring a goal, his celebration is simply turning and jogging back to midfield. No backflips. No knee slides to the corner flag. Rarely even a fist pump.

Maybe it’s all those times he’s heard me say, “Act like you’ve been there before.”

That face describes Gio perfectly. Focused, determined, Stoic.

But this time, it was different. With a huge smile on his face, he went to every single teammate, one by one, offering high fives, hugs, and quiet words of gratitude. It was connection in its most authentic form.

I hadn’t realized how much this game, this win, meant to him.

And Rocco? Every game, at the start of each half, he’d start at the line, firing up each of his teammates, offering encouragement as he worked his way back to the goal.

It struck me in that moment how much those small gestures reveal about who they are, and who they’re becoming, not just as athletes, but as young men.

And just as I was taking it all in, the past came rushing back. I thought about seeing Rocco take his first steps, at least the first ones I saw, when Sarah brought him to visit me at the event in 2009. I thought about Gio’s team, affectionately known as the “Bad News Bears,” finding the most creative ways to lose game after game. I thought about the years I was in

Rocco at 3 years old. Our boys grew up on the soccer field.

charge, juggling every detail, rarely just watching.

I thought about what it really means to grow, how it takes time, patience, and space for kids to figure things out on their own.

It struck me that the same principle applies to life. Growth isn’t linear. It’s messy. It’s unpredictable. And it never really stops. 

That lesson feels all the more poignant now.

I’m watching my boys grow into athletes, into young men, into people who hold space for their teammates. As I observe, I realize I’m still growing, too, not just as a father, husband, or community member, but as a person.

For years, I poured everything I had into the club: the long days, the constant fires to put out, the never-ending pressure to get it right. It consumed me. And while I’m proud of what we built, I’m only now starting to understand what it means just to be there, to watch the games unfold without trying to control the outcome.

Rocco gives some words of encouragement to a teammate. He does this before the kickoff of each half. Making sure to get to each of his teammates as he works his way into the goal box.

It’s taken me years to learn that some of the most important work happens in the quiet moments. The moments where you simply sit back, let go, and just watch.

It’s easy to think development is something that happens when they’re young, on the field, in school, on the playground. But the truth is, we’re all still learning, still stretching, still figuring it out.

Rocco, at 17, has been wearing his first-place medal for almost 24 hours now. He’s proud of that moment, and he should be.

But when I think about the next five to ten years, I hope they remember more than just the score lines. I hope they remember the car rides. The time they spent building relationships with their teammates. The moments we showed up for each other. The quiet power of belonging to a team, and the steady strength that comes from having people in your corner, no matter the outcome.

And what do I hope to remember?

The smelly backpacks, stuffed with unwashed uniforms and socks. The sound of their cleats on the sidewalk as we head to the car. The smile on Gio’s face after the win. Watching both of my boys grow into leaders, right in front of me. And the gift of being present, not as a coach or a director, but simply as a dad.

I know this chapter is moving fast. The games will end. The fields will grow quiet. But as the page turns, I’ll hold onto these simple lessons:

Showing up is enough.

It’s not just the games that matter; it’s the quiet moments in between.

Growth takes time, and it’s a process that never really ends.

And if we give our kids the space and support to grow, they just might surprise us.

For years, I worked tirelessly to build the tournament, the teams, and the club.

This weekend reminded me that sometimes, the real work is in sitting still, being present, and letting the game and the people we love unfold as they will.