Coaching Your Kid's Team
6 min read
Coaching your kid's team is one of the better decisions a father can make, not because of what it does for the team, but because of what it does to you.
The test is not tactical.
It is a patience test.
You signed up to coach because nobody else would. Or because your kid asked, and you said yes before you thought about it. Whatever the reason, you are standing on a field with eleven kids who are looking at you like you have answers.
A nine-year-old who cannot catch a ground ball does not need a lecture on fundamentals. He needs someone to throw it to him again without sighing. If you can do that, fifty times in a row, with the same tone on the fifty-first throw as the first, you are coaching. If you cannot, you are just showing up.
A standard is something you hold regardless of the score. An expectation is something that evaporates when the score gets bad. Most of us start the season thinking we have standards. We find out at the first loss which one it actually is.
They are not watching the plays.
They are watching you.
There is a moment most coaches have, usually mid-season, when they realize their kid has been studying them the entire time. Not the plays or the mechanics, but the coach himself: how he handles the umpire when the call is wrong, how he talks to the kid who made the error that cost the game, how he acts in the parking lot on the way home when the only audience is a nine-year-old in the back seat.
That is the real game. The one on the field is a prop.
Your kid will not remember most of the wins. What they remember is whether you were the kind of person they wanted to be around when things were going badly. That is the whole tape. That is the legacy.
It is not about winning, and it is not addressed to coaches. But it is exactly what coaching your kid's team is about.
Simpler than you think.
Harder than it sounds.
Kids need a coach who shows up prepared, keeps the same tone on Tuesday as on Saturday, and finds something real to say to every kid on the roster, not just the ones who are good.
That last one is the hardest. It is easy to coach talent. You say something encouraging, the kid does the thing, you nod, and the loop completes itself. The hard coaching is the kid at the end of the bench who is not going to be the reason you win, who knows it, and who is watching to see if you notice him anyway.
When you notice that kid, when you find the specific, true thing to say to him and you say it with your full attention, two things happen. He remembers it. And your kid sees you do it.
You did not know how much
you would miss it.
Most coaches are surprised by how much they learn about patience, and how little they knew about it before they had eleven kids in front of them. They are surprised by how much the team's energy mirrors theirs. On the days when the coach shows up heavy and distracted, the practices are flat. On the days when the coach shows up present and specific, something catches.
They are also surprised by how much they miss it when it is over. Not the wins usually, but the routine of it: the Tuesday evening practices that were inconvenient until they were gone. The post-game conversation in the parking lot where your kid tells you something they would not have told you at the dinner table.
A lot of fathers who coach will tell you that coaching is the best parenting decision they ever made, not because of the wins, but because of the hours, and those hours are not something every dad gets.
We send a short letter every Sunday morning. One verse, one hat, nothing else. Join the list.
Notice it.
Let it land.
The season ends faster than it started. The last game arrives before you feel ready for it to. You shake hands with the other team, you say something to your players, and then they scatter to their parents and the cooler and the trunk of someone's car, and that is it.
What you built was not a team, exactly, though you built that too. What you built was a version of yourself that showed up, week after week, to eleven kids who needed something consistent to count on. That is harder than it sounds, and more valuable than the record shows.
If you want to read more about what Bridger is built on and why Garth started it, that is here. The hat has a verse inside it, and here is how that works.
Every hat has a purpose beyond you.
Learn more about our missionQuestions coaches ask.
Does it matter if I played the sport when I was younger?
It helps a little with fundamentals, but it is not what makes a good coach. The coaches who do the most good are usually the ones who are most consistent and most present, and that has nothing to do with athletic history.
What do I do when my own kid is underperforming?
Treat them the same as any other player on the roster, which is harder than it sounds. If you hold them to a higher standard because they are yours, or if you go easier on them to avoid the appearance of favoritism, both are wrong. Even, specific, and honest: that is the standard for every kid, including yours.
How do I handle a parent who is critical from the sideline?
Address it directly and privately, as early as possible. The longer it goes unaddressed, the more it shapes the team's environment. A short, honest conversation before it becomes a pattern is the right move. You do not have to be harsh. You do have to be clear.
What do I do when I lose my patience on the field?
Acknowledge it, briefly, and move on. Kids forgive faster than adults do, but they need to see you take responsibility without making a production of it. A short honest acknowledgment is more powerful than an extended apology that makes the moment about you.
What if my kid does not want me to coach next season?
Ask them why, listen to the answer, and then make the decision that is right for both of you. The kid who told you honestly how they felt is telling you something worth hearing, and how you respond to that is part of the coaching too.
Bridger started as something I needed long before it became something I built. It is for the men who carry more than most will ever know.