My chest tightens. My hands clench into fists.
Some kids have thick enough skin, confident enough personalities, supportive enough people in their lives that one aggressive parent won’t break them. Some kids can shrug this off.
But no kid should have to.
I’m moving before I realize it, heading out of the dugout toward Jeremy’s dad. At six-four”, I tower over the man, and when I stop in front of him, he takes a step back.
“Hey,” I say, my voice low and controlled. “Let’s go talk.”
He blinks, surprised. “Uh, sure. Yeah.”
I point to a spot down the line, away from the parents, away from Jeremy. But before I meet the dad, I go back into the dugout and check on his son.
I clap a hand on his shoulder. “Those were some good cuts, Jeremy,” I say. “Your follow-through is exactly what we wanted. I’m proud of you. Now do you remember what we talked about?”
Jeremy’s brown eyes are rimmed red, like he’s holding back tears. He nods, though.
I lean down, making sure he can look me in the eye. “The last at bat doesn’t matter. Only the next. You got this.”
Jeremy nods again and takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Good man. Now cheer on your team, okay? They need you.”
I head toward where Jeremy’s dad is waiting, gripping the top of the dugout fence. My cleats scrape against the dirt as I stop, looking down at him.
“Listen,” I say, keeping my tone even. “You want your kid to succeed. You’re invested. I get it. You drove him here every day this week, and you want to see results.”
He nods, defensive. “Exactly. I’m just trying to help him improve.”
“Do you think it worked?”
“Uh,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t know.”
“It didn’t.”
The man’s not convinced, so I cross my arms and change tack. “Here’s the thing. High schools, travel teams—they’re used to sports dads. But college scouts? Forget it. They won’t even look at kids with parents like you. Neither will minor leaguemanagers,” I say, and he blanches. I’m the manager of the local Triple-A team, after all. “No one wants to deal with a Little League dad.”
His face goes red. “I’m not?—”
“You are,” I say, cutting him off. Not cruel, but firm. “And let’s say I’m wrong, and you’re just having an off day.Your kid is eleven. He’s out here because he loves the game, and you’re making him hate it. You’re making him afraid to fail. And when a kid is afraid to fail, he stops trying new things. Stops taking risks. Stops improving.” I take off my hat and run my hand through my hair before replacing it. “Worse, he stops feeling like his dad is in his corner. Is that what you want?”
The man’s mouth opens, then closes. The defensiveness drains from his face, replaced by something that looks like shame.
“No.” He covers his mouth, rubs his hand over his chin, clears his throat. “No. I don’t want any of that.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
Granddad never apologized. Never backed down. Never would have admitted he was wrong.
This guy just did.
My throat tightens, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak again. “Look, I know you care. I know you want him to be great. But that won’t happen if you ride him for every mistake.”
“Then what do I do?” he asks, and the genuine concern in his voice almost robs me of my voice.
I take a breath. “Support him. If he needs to adjust his swing when you two are playing, tell him how, but if he doesn’t do it, you tell him, ‘Good try.’ Or say, ‘We’ll keep working on it, but you’re doing great.’ And no matter what happens—no matter if he strikes out or if he misses every catch—after the game, you never criticize him. All you do is give him a hug and tell him, ‘I loved watching you play.’”
The dad nods slowly, his eyes a little glassy. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”
