It Comes up Every Season

Somewhere around week two of any season, another parent pulls me aside and asks some version of the same thing: “How do you coach your own kid without it getting weird?”

I get it from the baseball side, the football side, and the tennis parents too. It is the most common question I hear, and for a long time I gave a short answer because I did not think it through. Now I think it deserves a real one, because the people asking are usually worried about something specific. They are worried their kid will start to hate the sport, or hate them, or both.

The Short Answer Is Not the Honest One

The easy answer is “just treat them like everyone else.” That sounds right, but it is not quite true, and I think pretending it is true is where coaches get into trouble.

Here is the honest version: your kid is not just another player to you, and acting like they are is its own kind of lie. What actually works is being clear, out loud, about the one or two places where you will hold them to a different standard, and leaving everything else alone.

For me, that one place is effort on days they do not feel like it. I will say something to my own kid about a lazy lap that I would not say to someone else’s, because I know their baseline and I know when they are coasting. That is it. Everything else, playing time, mistakes, praise, I try to keep identical to how I treat the rest of the roster.

Separate the Car Ride From the Practice

The bigger mistake is not what happens on the field. It is what happens after, in the car.

If every drive home turns into a second practice, replaying every missed catch or double fault, the kid stops hearing “coach” and starts hearing “dad who will not stop.” I made this mistake more than once early on. I would be running back through the game in my head out loud, and my kid would just go quiet in the passenger seat.

What I do now: the car ride is off-limits for coaching talk unless they bring it up first. If they want to talk about the game, we talk about the game. If they want to talk about something else, we talk about something else. The field is where I am a coach. The car is where I am a parent. Keeping those two roles in separate rooms, so to speak, has done more for our relationship than any lineup decision ever did.

Let Them Hear It From Someone Else Sometimes

One thing that helped across every sport I have coached: other adults on the staff. If I have an assistant coach, I will sometimes ask them to be the one who gives my own kid a correction, especially a hard one. It is not about avoiding the conversation. It is about making sure my kid gets to hear tough feedback from more than one voice, so it does not all land as “my dad is always on me.”

With six kids across different seasons, I have had plenty of chances to get this wrong in new ways. What stays consistent is the same two rules: name the one standard that is different up front, and protect the car ride.

What I Tell the Parent Asking

When someone asks me this at practice, here is what I actually tell them now:

Decide, before the season starts, what the one thing is you will hold your kid to that you would not hold anyone else to. Say it to them directly, once, so it does not feel like a surprise later. Then make sure the ninety minutes after the game are just a parent and a kid, nothing more.

It will not solve every awkward moment. There will still be a day your kid is mad you did not put them at shortstop. But the question is never really “how do I coach my own kid.” It is “how do I make sure they still want to play next season.” That is the one worth answering honestly.