The morning sun cast golden stripes through the windows of Hillrest Elementary School, painting the gymnasium in hopeful light. Inside, the air buzzed with anticipation. Colorful banners of planets and robots hung from the rafters, and a video montage of rockets and electric cars flickered across a giant screen. It was STEM Inspiration Day—a celebration for young minds who dreamed of building the future.
The guest of honor was Caitlin Clark. For most, she was a basketball superstar, but today she was here as a symbol of resilience and possibility. In the front row, eleven-year-old Ethan Thompson clutched a battered notebook, his fingers tracing the worn edges. He’d filled its pages with questions about robotics and ideas for inventions, inspired by late-night YouTube videos and the stories his mother, Sarah, read to him about famous inventors.
Sarah stood at the back of the gym, watching Ethan with a bittersweet mixture of pride and worry. She’d always encouraged his curiosity, marveling at the way he could take apart a broken toaster and rebuild it into a makeshift robot. She’d watched him work for months on his application for a summer STEM camp, pouring his heart into building and coding. When the acceptance letter came, their tiny kitchen filled with laughter and plans for the summer.
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But dreams, Sarah knew, could be fragile. Just two weeks ago, a letter arrived—a cold, impersonal note explaining that due to budget cuts, Ethan’s scholarship had been rescinded. He’d tried to be brave, telling her, “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll try again next year.” But Sarah saw the way he stopped talking about his projects, the way his excitement dimmed. She hated the unfairness of it all, the way hard work didn’t always guarantee a happy ending.
Caitlin’s speech was electric. She spoke of setbacks, of believing in yourself when no one else does, of working hard even when the odds are stacked against you. The children sat transfixed, hanging on every word. Even the adults seemed to lean in, drawn by her conviction. But as the applause thundered, Sarah felt something inside her snap. Behind the inspiring words, she saw her son’s disappointment, and she couldn’t shake the quiet anger simmering beneath her admiration.
As Caitlin stepped off the stage, the crowd surged forward. Kids waved notebooks, eager for autographs and selfies. Sarah waited, then moved with quiet determination, positioning herself in Caitlin’s path. When their eyes met, Sarah spoke, her voice steady but low. “Miss Clark, could I speak with you outside?”
For a moment, surprise flickered across Caitlin’s face. She was used to fans, to excitement—this was different. She studied Sarah, then nodded. “Of course.” As they slipped into the hallway, Ethan watched, confusion flickering across his face.
The hallway was quiet, the noise from the gym muffled behind closed doors. Caitlin turned to face Sarah, curiosity in her eyes. Sarah crossed her arms, steadying herself. She hadn’t rehearsed what she wanted to say, but the words tumbled out, raw and honest.
“My son Ethan,” she began, her voice trembling with emotion, “he’s in there. He looks up to you. He worked so hard for a scholarship to a STEM camp. He got in. But then the funding was cut, and his spot disappeared.” She paused, swallowing hard. “He tried to be strong. But I saw the way he put his notebooks away, the way his excitement faded. I just need you to understand what it feels like—to have a kid who dreams so big, only to learn that sometimes dreams aren’t enough.”
Caitlin listened intently, her expression softening. She knew what it felt like to have doors slam shut, to wonder if all the work was worth it. She felt the weight of her own words—the speeches she’d given about perseverance, the encouragement she’d offered without truly understanding the faces behind the struggle.
A flicker of guilt touched her—not because she’d made the decision to cut funding, but because she’d never truly thought about the Ethans of the world. The ones who did everything right and still found themselves left behind.
Caitlin took a deep breath. “Let’s fix this,” she said quietly.
Sarah blinked, caught off guard. “Fix this?” she echoed, hope and skepticism mingling in her voice.
Caitlin nodded. “I don’t make the decisions on funding,” she admitted, “but I know the people who do. And I know when something’s worth fighting for.” She pulled out her phone, her fingers moving quickly as she typed a message. Sarah watched, her heart pounding, not daring to believe.
After a few moments, Caitlin looked up. “I just messaged the program director. I want to know exactly why the funding was cut and if there’s anything we can do to reinstate it.”
Sarah’s eyes filled with tears. “You’d really do that?”
“I can’t promise anything,” Caitlin said honestly, “but I can promise I won’t just let it go. Kids like Ethan deserve these opportunities.”
For the first time in weeks, Sarah felt something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel—hope. She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
Caitlin smiled gently. “I’m not done yet.” She glanced toward the gym, where Ethan still stood, clutching his notebook. “Does he know?” she asked.
Sarah shook her head. “I didn’t want to get his hopes up.”
“Let’s change that.” Caitlin gestured for Ethan to come over. He hesitated, then approached, his eyes wide.
“Hey, Ethan,” Caitlin said, crouching to his level. “I heard you’re pretty amazing at building things.”
Ethan’s cheeks flushed, but he nodded. “I love making robots,” he admitted.
“That’s incredible,” Caitlin said. “And I think you should keep doing that.” She took a breath. “I know you won a scholarship for STEM camp, and I know it was taken away. But I’m working on getting it back for you.”
Ethan’s eyes widened. “You are?”
“I can’t make promises, but I’m trying. And even if we can’t get that spot back, I want to make sure you get the opportunities you deserve.” She reached into her pocket and handed him a business card. “This is my direct contact. If you ever have questions about engineering, robotics, or just need advice, you can reach out anytime.”
Ethan stared at the card as if it were a golden ticket. “Really?” he whispered.
“Really,” Caitlin assured him.
And then, without warning, Ethan threw his arms around her, hugging her tightly. “Thank you,” he mumbled, his voice thick with emotion.
Caitlin hugged him back. “You’re going to do great things, Ethan.”
Sarah wiped tears from her eyes. “You have no idea what this means to us.”
Caitlin nodded. “I think I do.” She stood, glancing back toward the gym. “I should head back, but I’ll keep you updated on the scholarship.”
As Caitlin disappeared into the crowd, she called over her shoulder, “Keep building, Ethan!” He grinned, clutching the card to his chest.
For the first time in weeks, Ethan’s eyes sparkled with excitement. And for the first time in a long time, Sarah believed that maybe—just maybe—dreams were worth chasing after, no matter how many times the world tried to take them away.
How to be a good loser: 4 tips parents and kids can take from Caitlin Clark, NCAA finals
Are you a good loser?
Let’s get it out there: Losing stinks.
We saw how hard it can hit you on the sad faces of Caitlin Clark and her Iowa teammates in the final moments of their loss to South Carolina in Sunday’s NCAA women’s basketball final. We watched it in the slow, expressionless manner in which Purdue’s Zach Edey walked off the court after falling to UConn in the men’s title game the next night.
We even heard it in the usually cool and steady Lisa Bluder. The Iowa coach’s voice cracked when she talked about losing and she used humor to fend off the feeling.
Was there consolation, she was asked, that she dropped the last two finals to coaches (Kim Mulkey and Dawn Staley) who had combined to win seven national titles?
“Kind of makes me a double loser right now,” Bluder said, drawing laughs from media members.
Professional and collegiate athletes and coaches hate to lose. You and your kids probably do, too. It’s natural to be upset when you fall short, especially when a group of teammates have drawn close.
But high level coaches like Bluder know coming to grips with losses – owning up to them, even embracing them – can make players better.
How we handle losing can shape our sports experience, and certainly our reputations. We can learn to lose with grace, whether we are a 12-year-old soccer player or college basketball’s all-time leading scorer.
“I’ll be able to sleep at night even though I never won a national championship,” said Clark, whose supernova of a college career ended with the 87-75 loss to South Carolina.
“Everything I’ve done, there’s so much to be proud of,” she said. “I don’t sit and sulk about the things that never happened.”
Basketball players and coaches showed us this week how cathartic losses can be if we allow ourselves to fully process them. They can help us assess what we have achieved and push us forward into our next challenge, whether that be another youth game or the WNBA.
Using the examples of Clark and others at Iowa and Purdue, here’s how younger athletes can be “good” losers, too.
1. Don’t make excuses. The first step in overcoming a loss is acknowledging it.
Yes, it smarts to congratulate a team that just beat you. Sometimes, as the Purdue men and Iowa women had to do, you first have to stand and watch players celebrate.
As you wait, allow the loss to sink in. Let the anger you feel run through you before you face up with your opponents. Think about why you might have fallen short, and what you can try and do differently the next time. Then walk through the line and congratulate the other team.
You may not feel better immediately, but taking these steps will begin the healing process and motivate you for next time.
“(Donovan) Clingan’s a great player but I just gotta play better,” Edey said of his UConn counterpart, the center’s eyes still burning when he spoke minutes after his team’s 75-60 loss. “It’s one of those games where I can’t go through stretches where I’m not effective. I had a few of those stretches today and that was the game.”
Edey was being hard on himself. He set game highs with 37 points and 10 rebounds. The lesson here is he wasn’t making excuses.
Excuses can come from the player, but also parents who seek to validate or comfort their kids.
It wasn’t your fault.
Your teammates didn’t help out enough.
Your coach put you in an unfair situation.
Coaches, whether they’re in high school or winning NCAA championships, tend to hate excuses. During an interview with CBS in the leadup to the men’s finale, UConn’s Dan Hurley offered a warning of what can eventually happen if you continue to make them.
“We spend a lot of time really focusing on the parents,” Hurley said. “Are they gonna be fans of their son or are they gonna be parents? Are they going to hold them accountable, have an expectation that, when something goes wrong, that it’s not the coach’s fault. That their son’s gotta work harder, he’s gotta do more, he’s gotta earn his role?
“When you talk to the parents in the recruiting process, are they constantly complaining about the coaches after a bad game or are they sending you a text or are you having a conversation where their son has gotta do more, he’s gotta player harder, he’s gotta work on his skills. They tell on themselves. They drop hints, and (if) you’ve got the wrong type of people in that inner circle around your players, they’ll sink your program.”
2. Don’t allow yourself to be defined by a loss. Be defined by how you respond to it.
There is a difference between being upset about a loss and being a sore loser.
In the second scenario, you fling your baseball glove, hurl a basketball, storm off to the parking lot without shaking your opponents’ hands or single out a teammate for a mistake that might have cost you the game.
In the first, you accept what happened and use the experience to fuel you.
Purdue, a top seed in the NCAA Tournament in 2023 and 2024, suffered a devastating loss to No. 16 Fairleigh Dickinson last season. Edey took the loss particularly hard as the national player of the year and the face of the team. But he swallowed that loss and used it to drive him all the way to final this season.
Iowa’s women reached the final last year and lost to LSU, then made a repeat appearance in the championship after losing two players who were three-year starters.
Both teams came together after losses, using the experiences to motivate and inspire them.
“We truly have each other’s back,” Clark said. “Maybe we weren’t always the most skilled. Maybe we weren’t always the tallest. Maybe we weren’t always the fastest. But we just believed what we knew we could be in these moments. We trusted one another.”
Some wins can be empty. Maybe you won a game when you didn’t play well or when an opponent made a mistake.
Some losses can be more meaningful. The next time you lose, ask yourself if you were satisfied with your effort. If the answer is no, you have something to work on for next game.
If the answer is yes, there is satisfaction in knowing you did everything you could to try and win.
Clark smiled when discussing South Carolina’s size and rebounding edge (51-29). It wasn’t a smile of defeat as much as one of satisfaction because, like Purdue, her team didn’t give into the disadvantage.
“I’m just proud of our group,” she said. “We never backed down and, you know, we gave it everything we had.”
As difficult as it is, you can accept that you lost to a better team.
“We’ve played against athletes and played against some really good defensive guys this year, and in the tournament, but not the collection of defensive players like UConn has,” Purdue coach Matt Painter said. “We’d play against somebody and they’d have a lockdown defender. These guys are bringing lockdown defenders off the bench. … Tip the hat to them.”
He shook his head, then turned to discussing Edey.
“I just told him in the locker room, ‘You’re not gonna go on in life and push past here and not deal with adversity,’ ” Painter said. “In the workforce, in relationships, everything; you’re going to deal with adversity. And he was superior dealing with adversity.”
