I’ve listened to the podcasts. Well, most of them. Then my mind wanders and I realize I actually prefer silence when I’m driving alone.

I’ve saved the articles. A ton of them. I have every intention of reading them someday, too.

I’ve heard the experts explain the morning routines, communication frameworks, discipline systems, and habits that can supposedly transform me into the father my kids need.

Some of it has been helpful.

Some of it has been overwhelming.

And a surprising amount of it has left me feeling like fatherhood is a problem to solve instead of a relationship to build.

Because most days, fatherhood doesn’t feel like a system.

It feels wild, loud, and unpredictable.

Most podcasts, articles, and books don’t speak from that space.

They speak from a place that feels suspiciously calm. Like some magical parenting nirvana that’s supposedly waiting for me if I just follow their 27-step plan. Probably with one child who has always been a great listener.

Me?

I have four boys. We listen to Nirvana, and they rarely listen well all at the same time.

These frameworks and gurus rarely talk about what happens when one kid needs help with homework while another is arguing about whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher.

Or when you have baseball practice, a Scout meeting, a forgotten water bottle, and a bedtime conversation all happening within the same three-hour window.

Real dads like me spend a lot of time trying to be patient when we’re tired.

Trying to be present when we’re distracted.

Trying to be grateful when we’re overwhelmed.

In other words, it feels messy.

Which is why I’ve found myself learning from some unexpected teachers lately.

Fictional fathers

As I’ve introduced my boys to some of the shows I grew up watching...

and as I’ve searched for shows capable of holding my attention long enough to avoid getting nudged awake for snoring...

I’ve realized there are a lot of lessons hiding inside fictional dads.

The same sitcom dads, cartoon dads, movie dads, and father figures I used to watch purely for entertainment have started hitting differently now that I’m raising four boys of my own.

As a kid, I watched for the jokes. As a dad, I watch for the choices. The wins. The mistakes. The repairs. The moments they stay. The moments they choose connection over control. None of them are perfect.

That’s why they work.

What these fictional fathers offer is something different. These fictional fathers offer something else.

Men trying.

Men failing.

Men learning.

Men showing up.

Men getting another chance.

That feels a lot more like fatherhood.

Over the next few weeks, I’m going to revisit a handful of fictional fathers who have stuck with me over the years.

Some come from sitcoms.

Some come from cartoons.

Some come from movies.

One might not even be a father at all.

I’m not interested in ranking them. I’m not interested in deciding who was the best dad. I’m interested in the questions they force me to ask.

Questions about connection.

Presence.

Expectations.

Encouragement.

Questions that show up in my house far more often than parenting theories ever do.

Each one has a question for me.

Not a parenting strategy.

Not a framework.

A question

The kind that follows you into the driveway after work, into the bleachers during a baseball game, or into a quiet moment after the kids are asleep. Because the older I get, the more I believe fatherhood is less about having the right answers and more about asking the right questions. And sometimes those questions arrive from the most unexpected places.

Even a sitcom rerun.

Even a cartoon dog.

Even a fictional character who somehow understands fatherhood better than we expected.

So that’s where we’re headed.

Not to find perfect dads.

But to learn from imperfect ones.

Because those are the only kind any of us ever get to be.

A dad coach is someone trying to be a good dad and a good coach at the same time.

Not perfect.

Not always calm.

Not always saying the right thing.

Just a dad trying to help kids grow while remembering that the relationship matters more than the result.

Because long after the scores are forgotten…

kids remember how we made them feel.

Over the past few months, I wrote a series called:

The Best Coaches Keep Kids Coming Back.

It started as a reminder to myself before the season began.

The kind of reminder you write in March because you know August Jeremy is going to need it.

And he did.

Some weeks I lived these ideas well.

Other weeks I reread my own articles wondering why the author seemed so much wiser than the guy standing in the dugout.

But as the season unfolded, one thing became clear:

The best moments had very little to do with wins.

They had everything to do with confidence.

Connection.

Resilience.

Teammates supporting each other.

Kids recovering after mistakes.

And kids still wanting to come back tomorrow.

So I pulled the biggest lessons from the series into one simple guide.

The Dad Coach Reset Guide

Inside you’ll find five simple shifts:

1. Encourage. Adjust. Protect.

Help kids grow without crushing confidence.

2. Coach the Next Hero Moment.

Focus on what comes next, not what just happened.

3. One Cue. One Rep.

Kids need reps more than speeches.

4. Dashboard Dad.

Sometimes your kid needs dad more than coach.

5. The Real Win.

Long after the scores are forgotten, kids remember how we made them feel.

Whether you’re coaching baseball, softball, soccer, basketball, or just trying to survive a Saturday morning with a team full of energetic kids...

I hope it helps.

Download the Dad Coach Reset Guide

[Free Download]

one-take garage talk for dads trying to stay present, regulate under pressure, and lead their families a little better than last time.

This week’s podcast started as a reflection of the Dad Coach Series. A proactive series that I wrote before Little League season started but found myself reading as the season progressed as a reminder of the Dad Coach that I wanted to be.

In this episode I talk about the importance of the Dad Coach, how seasons are really measured, and the powerful relationship building opportunity we have with our own kids before the season ends for the last time.

This episode also includes the related article - Friday Freebie: The Dad Coach Reset Guide

Real stories. Practical resets.

Referenced in this episode

• Long After the Score Is Forgotten

• Friday Freebie: The Dad Coach Reset Guide

Subscribe now

Let’s start with defining what a dad coach is.

A dad coach is someone trying to be a good dad and a good coach at the same time.

Most of us got into this because we love our kids.

We love baseball. We love summer nights. We love helping kids grow.

And somewhere along the way, many of us realize:

this was never really just about baseball.

Because long after the scores are forgotten…

kids remember how it felt to play.

I started this series before baseball season as a reminder of the kind of dad coach I wanted to be before the first bad call, frustrating inning, or emotional meltdown tested all of it.

As the season went on, I found myself rereading these articles.

Sometimes for encouragement.

Sometimes because I needed the reminder.

And if I’m being honest, there were games where I lived up to what I wrote—and others where I didn’t.

Now, knee-deep in the playoffs, I can look across two teams and see kids having fun.

They’re good teammates.

They work hard.

They take risks.

They make mistakes.

And they recover.

Parents have bought in too.

One running joke this season has been that I might get thrown out of a game…

not for arguing, but for being relentlessly positive.

Ridiculous, but one game it almost happened. Afterward, laughing about it, I realized something:

The season wasn’t perfect.

Neither was I.

But many of the things I hoped for back in March actually happened. And none of them had anything to do with wins or standings. I kept thinking about different moments:

A kid bouncing back after a rough inning.

A teammate encouraging another player.

Kids laughing in the dugout.

Parents cheering for children who weren’t their own.

The confidence that slowly appeared in kids who didn’t have much of it in April. The best moments rarely showed up in the scorebook. Nobody tracks resilience. There isn’t a column for confidence. And nobody measures how often a kid leaves the field feeling supported and excited to come back.

But those things matter.

They might matter most.

Truth

Because years from now, most of these kids won’t remember many scores. They won’t remember league standings. Just like I don’t remember most of mine. But they’ll remember how the game felt.

The coaches.

The teammates.

The pressure.

The freedom.

The fun.

And whether baseball felt like something they got to do…

or something they had to survive.

That’s why this series was never really about baseball. Baseball was just the classroom. The real lesson was always bigger.

How do we help kids handle mistakes?

How do we respond when things aren’t fair?

How do we stay steady when emotions rise?

How do we build confidence without removing accountability?

How do we help kids love something enough to keep coming back?

Those aren’t baseball questions. They’re life questions. And that’s what this series has always pointed toward.

Coaching yourself before coaching kids.

Protecting confidence after mistakes.

Refocusing after frustration.

Knowing when to be coach.

Knowing when to be dad.

None of those things guarantee wins.

But they create something more important:

an environment where kids can grow.

Why It Matters

Kids play better when they feel emotionally safe. More importantly, emotionally safe kids usually become healthier adults. When kids learn:

that mistakes aren’t identity,

that failure isn’t rejection,

that frustration can be regulated,

and that connection doesn’t disappear after a rough day,

it changes more than baseball.

It changes how they respond to setbacks.

How they lead.

How they parent someday.

That’s why dad coaches matter.

Not because they’re perfect.

But because kids borrow emotional patterns from the adults closest to them.

And whether we realize it or not…

we’re teaching something much bigger than sports.

Reset

So maybe the real goal was never perfect baseball. Maybe it was:

kids who still love the game.

Kids who feel safe making mistakes.

Kids who know effort matters.

Kids who learn resilience.

Kids who become great teammates.

Kids who still want to tell you about their day after a rough game.

And maybe being a great dad coach simply means remembering:

Someday there will be a last game.

A last practice.

A last ride home.

And when that day comes, I don’t think any of us will wish we had talked more about batting mechanics. We’ll be grateful for the relationship we built along the way.

Because long after the scores are forgotten…

kids remember how we made them feel.

One Last Thing

Over the past few months, I’ve pulled together the biggest lessons from this series into a free guide:

The Dad Coach Reset Guide

Five simple shifts to help kids stay confident, connected, and coming back.

I’ll share it later this week.

• Part 1: Coaching Kids Starts With Coaching Yourself

• Friday Fieldwork: Encourage. Adjust. Protect.

• Part 2: We Started “Coaching” the Umpire

• Friday Fieldwork: Coach the Next Hero Moment

• Part 3: Stop Coaching Every Mistake

• Friday Fieldwork: One Cue One Rep

Let’s start with defining what a dad coach is.

A dad coach is someone trying to be a good dad and a good coach at the same time.

Because the truth is…

you know your own kid deeper than anyone else on that field.

You know when confidence is slipping.

You know when frustration is building.

You know when they need support.

And you know when baseball is starting to feel heavy.

There are moments kids need dad coach.

Moments to teach.

Correct.

Challenge.

Support.

But there are other moments when they just need dad.

And those are the moments this Fieldwork is about.

If you read this week’s article, you already know the moment.

The game ends.

Everybody piles into the car.

And before you even leave the parking lot, your brain starts preparing the postgame speech.

The missed ground ball.

The strikeout.

The baserunning mistake.

The “teachable moment.”

Meanwhile your kid is in the backseat emotionally exhausted, covered in dirt, and just hoping the ride home still feels safe.

That’s why we made a rule in our car:

If my hat is on, I’m coach.

If my hat is off, I’m dad.

And honestly?

Most of the time the hat ends up on the dashboard before we even leave the field.

Because sometimes your kid needs dad more than coach.

Your Fieldwork This Week

This week, try becoming more intentional about the emotional tone of the ride home.

Not the mechanics.

Not the analysis.

The feeling.

1. Pause Before the Breakdown

When your kid gets in the car, don’t immediately launch into coaching.

Pause first.

Let everybody breathe. Sometimes the best thing you can do after a rough game…

is not turn the car into a moving postgame interview.

2. Ask Who They Need

Try asking:

“Who do you want riding home right now?

Dad or coach?”

You might be surprised by the answer.

Sometimes kids want to process the game.

Sometimes they want feedback.

But a lot of the time?

They just want dad.

3. Protect the Ride Home

If they ask for dad....

Grab food. Play music. Laugh. Talk about literally anything else for a little while.

Because emotional safety matters.

And kids don’t just remember the game.

They remember how it felt being with us after it.

If they ask for coach....

Give them some balanced feedback with equal parts praise and areas to improve and then shift into dad mode.

Why It Matters

After games, kids are often emotionally flooded.

Especially after mistakes, embarrassment, pressure, or disappointment.

And when emotions are elevated, long coaching speeches usually create more heaviness…

not more confidence.

That’s why the emotional tone of the ride home matters so much.

When kids feel emotionally safe:

• they recover faster

• stay more confident

• become more coachable later

• and separate mistakes from identity

Connection first.

Coaching later.

That’s the reset.

Closing Thought

one-take garage talk for dads trying to stay present, regulate under pressure, and lead their families a little better than last time.

This week’s reset started when my plan around taking my perfectly crafted recovery drink immediately after my workout was delayed by a three year old inviting me to taste his slobbery dum-dum.

What created a pause for me, created a feeling of rejection for him.

In this episode I talk about toddler interruptions during our focus on productivity, showing up with intention, and some of the things that people don’t tell you when you become a dad.

This episode also includes the related article - Friday Fieldwork: The Driveway Reset

Real stories. Practical resets.

Referenced in this episode

• Reset: The Sucker Test

• Friday Fieldwork: The Driveway Reset

Subscribe now

• Part 1: Coaching Kids Starts With Coaching Yourself

• Friday Fieldwork: Encourage. Adjust. Protect.

• Part 2: We Started “Coaching” the Umpire

• Friday Fieldwork: Coach the Next Hero Moment

• Part 3: Stop Coaching Every Mistake

• Friday Fieldwork: One Cue One Rep

Let’s start with defining what a dad coach is.

Not the guy trying to make sure his kid always plays shortstop.

Not the coach treating a Tuesday night little league game like Game 7 of the World Series.

And definitely not the adult turning the ride home into a moving postgame interrogation.

A dad coach is someone trying to be a good dad and a good coach at the same time.

Because the truth is…

you know your own kid deeper than anyone else on that field. You know when they’re frustrated before they say a word. You know when confidence is slipping. You know when they need a push. And you know when baseball is starting to feel heavy.

There are moments when kids need dad coach. Moments to teach. Correct. Challenge. Support.

But there are other moments when they just need dad.

And those are the moments this article is about.

Because deep down, the real win isn’t just better players.

It’s kids who still love the game. And kids, especially your own, still wanting to ride home with you after a rough one.

Story

The game had barely ended.

Kids were still grabbing helmets.

Parents were folding chairs with the urgency of a NASCAR pit crew.

And before we even pulled out of the parking lot, I could feel it.

The temptation. The speech. The overwhelming urge to immediately revisit the strikeout, the missed ground ball, the bad throw, the baserunning mistake, and that one swing that apparently required a full ESPN breakdown. Because if I’m being honest?

The ride home can feel like the perfect coaching window.

Captive audience.

No escape.

Just you, your kid, and your emotionally charged baseball wisdom rolling 42 miles per hour through suburban streets.

And deep down, it FEELS helpful.

Like:

“I’m helping him process the game.”

Meanwhile your kid is in the backseat wondering if it’s socially acceptable to fake being asleep at 6:14 PM. Or quietly staring out the window replaying the game in their head for the fifteenth time already. Because here’s the thing adults forget...

Most kids already know when they struggled. They don’t need help identifying every mistake. They lived it. That’s actually why we made a rule in our car.

If my hat is on, I’m coach.

If my hat is off, I’m dad.

And before we leave the parking lot, I ask them:

“Who do you want riding home right now?”

Sometimes they want coach first. They want to process the game. Talk through an at-bat. Ask questions. But honestly?

Most of the time my hat ends up sitting on the dashboard before we even leave the field. And the cool thing is…

my boys will remind me if I accidentally start sounding like coach when the hat is off.

Which is both humbling…

and incredibly fair.

Insight

The ride home matters more than most adults realize.

Because kids often remember the feeling after the game, the emotional tone of the car, the silence, the tension, and the pressure longer than they remember the score. And when every car ride becomes correction, analysis, mechanics, disappointment, or emotional heaviness…

kids slowly start associating the sport with pressure instead of connection.

That doesn’t mean you ignore mistakes. Or stop teaching. Or pretend effort and accountability don’t matter. Great dad coaches still help kids improve. But they understand something important:

Not every moment needs immediate coaching.

Sometimes kids need food, water, silence, laughter, a reset…

or just a dad who still enjoys being around them after a rough game

Because emotional safety is what keeps kids coming back.

Why It Works

After competition, kids are often emotionally flooded. Especially after mistakes, embarrassment, failure, pressure, or disappointment And when emotions are elevated, the brain becomes less efficient at processing feedback. That’s why the classic “postgame breakdown” usually doesn’t land the way adults hope it will.

Kids don’t hear:

“I’m helping you improve.”

They often hear:

“Your mistakes changed how this feels between us.”

Even when that’s NOT the adult’s intention.

That’s why connection matters so much after games. Because when kids feel emotionally safe, they recover faster, stay more confident, become more coachable later, and separate mistakes from identity. The best coaching conversations usually happen AFTER emotions settle.

Not during emotional flooding.

And definitely not while trapped at a red light with cleats still on.

Reset

The next time your kid gets in the car after a game:

Pause before launching into analysis. Instead, ask about something fun, grab food, let them talk first, or just enjoy the ride for a few minutes And if you really feel the need to coach something?

Ask permission first.

“Want one thought from me… or do you just want to chill for a bit?”

That question alone changes the emotional temperature.

Because kids don’t just remember the games.

They remember how it felt being with us after them.

• Part 1: Coaching Kids Starts With Coaching Yourself

• Friday Fieldwork: Encourage. Adjust. Protect.

• Part 2: We Started “Coaching” the Umpire

• Friday Fieldwork: Coach the Next Hero Moment

Let’s start with defining what a dad coach is.

Not the guy trying to make sure his kid always plays shortstop.

Not the coach treating every strikeout like a full mechanical emergency.

And definitely not the adult turning one rough at-bat into a live-action TED Talk on resilience, bat speed, confidence, and launch angle.

A dad coach is someone trying to be a good dad and a good coach at the same time.

Someone who wants kids to improve, compete, build confidence, learn resilience, and still have fun playing the game.

Because deep down, the real win isn’t just better players.

It’s kids who still love the game.

And kids, especially your own, hoping you coach again next season.

If you read this week’s article, you already know the moment.

A kid strikes out.

Misses a ground ball.

Freezes.

And before they even sit down, your brain has already prepared:

• a mechanical breakdown

• an emotional recovery plan

• and possibly a hostage-negotiation-level speech about “competing harder”

Meanwhile the kid is still trying to remember whether they even like baseball.

This week’s reset is simple:

One cue.
One rep.
Then let them breathe.

Because kids need reps more than speeches.

Your Fieldwork This Week

This week, try leaning into a simple Dad Coach principle:

Simplify.
Rep.
Recover.

1. Simplify

When a kid makes a mistake:

Pause before coaching. Don’t rush in immediately. Give them a second to breathe first.

Then ask yourself:

“What is the one small cue that could help them the most right now?”

Not five things. One. Then model it for them.

Let them hear it.

And see it.

Keep it short enough to remember. Simple enough to actually use.

2. Rep

Have them repeat the cue back to you.

Then let them try it again immediately.

Not tomorrow. Not next practice. Right there.

Because confidence grows faster through doing than listening.

And when kids:

• hear it

• say it

• and do it

it sticks better.

Not because the speech was longer. Because the rep was real.

3. Recover

After the rep: Celebrate what improved. Even if it’s small.

A better load. More aggression. A calmer swing.

A kid stepping back in confidently after failure.

That stuff matters. Because recovery is a skill too. And kids build resilience when mistakes lead to another chance…

not another lecture.

Why It Matters

Kids process LESS information under stress.

Not more.

When emotions rise, long speeches usually create confusion…

not confidence.

That’s why overcoaching often creates:

• hesitation

• tightness

• robotic play

• fear of mistakes

Simple coaching helps kids recover faster and play freer.

One cue.

One rep.

One chance to recover.

That’s usually enough.

Closing Reminder

one-take garage talk for dads trying to stay present, regulate under pressure, and lead their families a little better than last time.

This week’s reset started when my perfectly planned trip to Costco quickly turned into a roller coaster ride of snack negotiations, losing a kid, and trying to hold it together so strangers don’t call the police.

What started as a way to continue our journey of keeping our kids interested in cooking turned into a very ambitious decision to take all 4 boys to Costco.

In this episode I talk about imaginary worlds, America Ninja Warrior, and how including your kids into planning something can increase their joy while increasing my stress.

This episode also includes the related article - Friday Fieldwork: Make the List Together

Real stories. Practical resets.

Referenced in this episode

• Reset: Chaos at Costco

• Friday Fieldwork: Make the List Together

• Part 1: Coaching Kids Starts With Coaching Yourself

• Friday Fieldwork: Encourage. Adjust. Protect.

• Part 2: We Started “Coaching” the Umpire

• Friday Fieldwork: Coach the Next Hero Moment

Let’s start with defining what a dad coach is.

Not the guy trying to make sure his kid always plays shortstop.

Not the coach treating a Tuesday night little league game like Game 7 of the World Series.

And definitely not the adult giving a full TED Talk on swing mechanics after every strikeout.

A dad coach is someone trying to be a good dad and a good coach at the same time.

Someone who wants kids to improve, compete, build confidence, learn resilience, and still have fun playing baseball.

All kids.

Especially their own.

Because deep down, the real win isn’t just better players.

It’s kids who still love the game.

And kids, especially your own, hoping you coach again next season.

Story

One kid struck out looking.

Totally froze.

And before he even got back to the dugout, my brain had already prepared approximately 47 coaching points. Stride earlier. Load sooner. Watch the release point. Attack the fastball. Don’t drift. Hands inside the ball. Breathe. Compete. Relax. Probably solve world hunger while you’re at it.

The poor kid sat down next to me still emotionally recovering from the strikeout…

and I was preparing to deliver what basically amounted to a baseball-themed hostage negotiation.

And if I’m being honest? This wasn’t really about helping him anymore. It was about my discomfort. My frustration. My need to fix the moment.

Because adults hate watching kids struggle.

Especially our own. So we start talking.

More instruction.

More correction.

More pressure.

And somehow we convince ourselves:

“I’m helping.”

Throw in the countless “cues” well-intentioned parents gave during that at-bat, plus the private conference he received from his dad with seven more coaching points, and you have a recipe to get worse, not better.

Meanwhile, the kid is sitting there trying to remember whether he even likes baseball anymore.

Insight

Most kids don’t need another speech after a mistake. They already did the best they could, weither you think that or not. What they really need is one small adjustment, emotional safety, and another rep.

That’s it.

But adults often overcoach because mistakes make US uncomfortable. Especially when expectations are high, emotions are elevated, games feel important, our own kid is involved, or other kids appear to be succeeding with ease. So we flood kids with information.

And the wild part? The more emotional a kid becomes, the LESS instruction they can actually process. And when we think about emotional flooding, don’t just picture a kid throwing a helmet or bat. A kid can look calm on the outside…

and still be an emotional mess on the inside.

That’s why overcoaching usually creates confusion, hesitation, fear of mistakes, tightness, and robotic play. It rarely creates confidence. Because kids don’t play freely when they feel like every mistake becomes a lecture.

They start trying not to fail.

Because they begin to fear failure.

And the next time they’re in that same situation, they’ve got six cues from you, a pep talk from dad, and seven random voices yelling suggestions because they “care” all swirling around in their head.

Which usually makes everything worse.

Why It Works

The brain processes less information under stress.

Not more.

When kids feel embarrassed, frustrated, or overwhelmed, the thinking part of the brain becomes less efficient.

That’s why emotional flooding and over-instruction are such a brutal combination.

The kid already feels pressure. Then adults add more words, more mechanics, more correction, and more intensity. And suddenly baseball stops feeling athletic. It starts feeling like taking a math test while someone yells formulas at you.

Kids improve through repetition, confidence, adjustment, safety, and recovery. Not nonstop correction. The best coaches know how to simplify.

One correction.

One reminder.

One next step.

One practice rep.

Then let the kid breathe.

When you simplify everything into one small action, let them practice that action, and then remind them they can do it…

you give them something they actually remember.

Because they heard it.

And did it.

Reset

The next time a kid makes a mistake:

Pause before speaking.

Then ask yourself: “Does this kid need more instruction right now…or more confidence?”

If you correct something, make it small, specific, and calm.

One thing.

Not five.

Then let them get another rep.

Don’t just tell them they know how to do it.

And please don’t ask the horrible question:

“Do you get it?”

Show them they CAN do it by letting them try it again right there.

Then celebrate what improved.

Adjust again if needed.

And remind them: “You’ll get the next one.”

Because kids need opportunities to recover.

Not just opportunities to be corrected.

Somewhere between the third questionable strike call and the third inning snack bag…
we slowly evolve from “supportive volunteer coach”
into a part-time appellate court judge with a sunflower seed addiction.

A dad coach is basically:

• 1 part baseball coach

• 1 part life coach

• 1 part equipment manager

• and 7 parts trying not to say something dramatic loud enough for the entire dugout to repeat later.

The dangerous thing about frustration is how quickly the brain starts casting roles.

Hero.

Villain.

Good guy.

Bad call.

And once the villain takes center stage…
we usually stop coaching the next hero moment (read more about it here).

You could feel it happen. The strike zone became the center of the game. The umpire became the main character. And suddenly the dugout stopped focusing on baseball. One kid started arguing the calls exactly like the coach. Another stopped paying attention completely. One was staring at airplanes.

Another let a ground ball slowly roll past him while the entire dugout held a courtroom hearing over Ball Four.

The emotional spotlight shifted.

And the kids followed it.

Your Fieldwork This Week

1. Catch the moment the villain appears

Most of the time, you can feel it before you hear it. The body tightens. The tone changes. The running commentary begins.

“That’s terrible.”

“Come on blue.”

“That’s two now.”

Notice the moment your brain stops watching the game and starts building a case. Because once the villain becomes “the problem,” your attention naturally starts collecting evidence. And once you cast yourself as the hero trying to “protect the team”…
it becomes really easy to stay emotionally hooked to the frustration.

2. Shift the emotional spotlight back to the hero

Ask yourself: Who actually needs my attention right now?

The batter stepping into the box? The pitcher trying to recover? The kid in right field slowly building confidence?

Not the umpire. Not the frustration. Not the unfairness.

The kids. The emotional spotlight always teaches something.

If the umpire becomes the villain, the dugout eventually starts acting like it’s under attack.

But if effort,
recovery,
and encouragement become the heroes…
kids usually start chasing those instead.

3. Coach the next hero moment

Give the dugout something healthier to repeat.

A cue. A laugh. A reset. A quick word of encouragement. Point out effort. Celebrate recovery. Find a kid doing something right and make that the center of attention.

A hustle play.

A reset after a mistake.

A teammate encouraging another teammate.

Make that the story the dugout starts repeating. Because youth sports move fast.

And the longer the villain story hangs in the air, the more the whole team starts breathing it in.

Why It Matters

Kids are constantly learning what deserves emotional attention.

Not just from what we say.

From what we react to.

And the hard part is…
our brains actually like villain stories.

They make us feel justified. They make us feel alert. Sometimes they even make us feel heroic. Like we’re defending fairness. Protecting the kids. Standing up for what’s right.

But once the umpire becomes “the problem,” every missed call suddenly feels personal. Every frustration confirms the story. And before long, the emotional climate of the dugout changes.

Not because kids fully understand baseball.

But because kids are incredibly good at reading emotional focus. They can tell what matters most by watching what adults react to. The frustration becomes contagious.

And the hero/villain story spreads faster than the actual coaching does.

That’s true in parenting too. Sometimes one frustrating behavior, one stressful moment, one conflict, one bad attitude starts swallowing the entire night. And we stop seeing everything else that’s

still good,
still growing,
still worth leading.

Sometimes the strongest leadership move is simply choosing a better hero.

• The kid who reset after striking out.

• The teammate encouraging another teammate.

• The child slowly building confidence.

The moment of growth hiding underneath the frustration. Because whatever gets the emotional spotlight…

usually becomes the story everyone else starts repeating.

Reset Reminder:

Not every frustration needs a villain.

Sometimes the strongest leadership move is refusing to let the wrong thing become the center of the story

one-take garage talk for dads trying to stay present, regulate under pressure, and lead their families a little better than last time.

This week’s reset started when my 4 year old wanted nothing more to watch the bridies with me while I wanted nothing more that to go get my garage workout in.

What started as a way to keep the entire house asleep so that a 4 year old tornado doesn’t wake everyone up quickly became the very moment my nervous system needed to reset and down regulate.

In this episode I talk about mindfulness, working-out, and how being present in nature with my 4 year old is one of the best resets a dad could ever ask for.

This episode also includes the related article - Friday Fieldwork: Follow the Wonder

Real stories. Practical resets.

Referenced in this episode

• Watching the Birdies: A 5AM Reminder

• Friday Fieldwork: Follow the Wonder

Catch up on the series:

• Part 1: Coaching Kids Starts With Coaching Yourself

• Friday Fieldwork: Encourage. Adjust. Protect.

Let’s start with defining what a dad coach is.

Not the guy trying to make sure his kid always plays shortstop.

Not the coach treating a Tuesday night little league game like Game 7 of the World Series.

And definitely not the adult spending more energy “coaching” the umpire than coaching the kids.

A dad coach is someone trying to be a good dad and a good coach at the same time.

Someone who wants kids to:

• improve

• compete

• build confidence

• learn resilience

• and still have fun playing baseball

All kids. Especially their own. Because deep down, the real win isn’t just better players. It’s kids who still love the game. Kids who learn how to respond when things don’t go their way.

And kids, especially your own, hoping you coach again next season.

Story

It started with one strike call.

Outside.

Like… objectively outside.

The kind of pitch where every dad behind the fence suddenly becomes a part-time MLB umpire.

The batter looked back.

Parents groaned.

One assistant coach muttered something under his breath.

I’m pretty sure there isn’t a Little League in the country using ABS yet, but after this call some Board Members were already discussing it like Rob Manfred was sitting behind home plate.

And before long, our dugout slowly started unraveling. Not dramatically. Just emotionally. Kids started chirping after every close call. Hands went in the air. Heads started shaking. Focus disappeared.

And all of a sudden, the entire energy of the game shifted.

Not toward:

• effort

• adjustments

• resilience

• the next pitch

Toward what was unfair. What was wrong. What the umpire missed.

And the frustrating part?

The ump wasn’t even the real problem anymore.

We were.

I was.

Because whether I realized it or not, the dugout was following my emotional focus.

Insight

Kids don’t just copy our instruction. They copy our attention.

Our reactions. Our frustration. Our emotional targets.

If coaches obsess over bad calls, kids will too.

If adults spiral about fairness, kids usually stop focusing on what they can control.

And honestly? Youth sports gives adults endless opportunities to lose emotional control.

Bad calls.

Weather.

Errors.

Playing time.

The kid eating sunflower seeds while standing in right field looking at airplanes.

But the best coaches understand something important:

A dugout almost always follows the emotional direction of the coach. Even when the coach doesn’t realize it. Because the moment kids start focusing on what’s unfair…

they usually stop focusing on what’s possible.

On what they can control.

On what the next right thing is.

Why It Works

Frustration changes the brain. When frustration rises, the brain slowly shifts from learning…

to protecting.

That’s survival mode. And survival mode rarely creates resilient baseball players. Or resilient people. Because once the brain feels threatened, it starts looking for:

• blame

• certainty

• fairness

• someone responsible

That’s where things can get dangerous in a dugout.

Our brains naturally love heroes and villains. And if we’re being honest? We rarely cast ourselves as the villain. So once the ump becomes the bad guy, the entire dugout starts emotionally organizing around it.

Now every close pitch feels personal.

Every missed call becomes proof.

Every moment confirms the story we already decided was true.

That’s confirmation bias. And once confirmation bias takes over, the brain starts collecting evidence to support it. And kids do the exact same thing. Suddenly nobody is focused on:

• effort

• adjustments

• resilience

• the next pitch

They’re focused on the villain. Because when kids stay emotionally stuck on:

• the umpire

• the missed call

• the unfairness

They stop asking:

“What’s my next job?”

That’s why emotional regulation matters so much in coaching. Kids don’t need perfect adults. They need regulated ones. Because kids borrow emotional cues from the adults leading them. The coach sets the emotional temperature. The dugout usually follows. And when coaches stay steady?

Kids recover faster.

Refocus quicker.

And play freer.

Reset

The next time something unfair happens:

• bad call

• error

• missed opportunity

• frustrating inning

Pause before reacting. Then redirect the focus. Ask:

“What’s the next right thing?”

Not:

• “Was that fair?”

• “How did he miss that?”

• “What are we doing?”

Next pitch.

Next play.

Next response.

Because baseball gets really hard the moment frustration becomes the loudest voice in the dugout.

Not the guy trying to make sure his kid always plays shortstop.

Not the coach treating a Tuesday night little league game like Game 7 of the World Series.

A dad coach is someone trying to be a good dad and a good coach at the same time.

Someone who wants kids to:

• improve

• compete

• build confidence

• learn resilience

• and still have fun playing baseball

All kids. Especially their own. Because deep down, the real win isn’t just better players.

It’s kids who still love the game.

And kids, especially your own, hoping you coach again next season.

If you read this week’s article, you already know exactly what I’m talking about.

One error turns into three.

Kids get quieter.

Coaches get louder.

And suddenly everyone is acting like a dropped ground ball in March just eliminated them from the World Series.

You can feel the dugout change. Mistakes feel heavier. Everyone starts pressing.

And usually? Adults feel it too.

That’s the moment.

Not when kids stop listening but before it. Consider this Fieldwork FROM the dugout. Moments that you cannot help them practice doing something differently, but you still want to cue them towards improvement.

Your Fieldwork This Week

This week, try leaning into Dad Coach Principle #1

Encourage. Adjust. Believe.

• Encourage their effort.

• Adjust a skill.

• Protect their confidence.

That order matters more than most coaches realize.

1. Encourage

Pick one kid to watch differently. Not the best player. Not the loudest player.

Watch the kid who changes after mistakes.

The one who:

• gets quiet

• speeds up

• avoids eye contact

• jokes to cover nerves

• looks defeated after errors

Then catch something good immediately. Not fake praise. Something real and specific.

“Way to stay with it.”

“I liked how you moved your feet there.”

“Way to swing all the way through.”

2. Adjust

Add ONE small correction. Not a full coaching clinic.

One thing. Small. Doable.

“Next time keep your glove in the dirt.”

“Try staying through the ball.”

“Keep your head down a little longer.”

That’s it.

3. Believe

Before they walk away:

• fist bump

• eye contact

• encouragement

• calm tone

Something that says:

“You’re okay here.”

Because kids can handle correction.

What they struggle with…

is feeling alone inside it.

Why It Matters

A kid boots a ground ball. You can see it on his face immediately.

Embarrassed.

Frustrated.

Waiting for the reaction.

Now imagine this:

“Way to stay with it. I liked how you got in front of it.”

“Next time keep your glove in the dirt a little longer.”

fist bump “You’re alright. Get the next one.”

That kid walks away thinking:

“I can do this.”

Kids don’t learn well in survival mode. When pressure feels too big, their brain shifts from learning…

to protecting.

That’s when confidence shrinks. Risk-taking disappears. And baseball (or any sport) stops being fun. But when kids feel safe?

They try more. Recover faster. And honestly…

play better.

one-take garage talk for dads trying to stay present, regulate under pressure, and lead their families a little better than last time.

This week’s reset started when my kids were struggling to not end every night with a Royal Rumble match in their bedroom.

What started as a way to prevent raising the energy at bed time, preventing everyone form going to bed, quickly became a night time practice that rewired our brains.

In this episode I talk about wrestling, farting, teeth grinding, and how being grateful might just be the way to land the plan during bedtime.

This episode also includes the related article - Friday Fieldwork: End the Day with Gratitude.

Real stories. Practical resets.

Referenced in this episode

• Reset: Gratitude >Gas (Especially After Mexican Food)

• Friday Fieldwork: End the Day with Gratitude

Let’s start with defining what a dad coach is.

Not the guy trying to make sure his kid always plays shortstop.

Not the coach treating a Tuesday night little league game like Game 7 of the World Series.

A dad coach is someone trying to be a good dad and a good coach at the same time.

Someone who wants kids to:

• improve

• compete

• build confidence

• learn resilience

• and still have fun playing baseball

All kids. Especially their own. Because deep down, the real win isn’t just better players.

It’s kids who still love the game.

And kids, especially your own, hoping you coach again next season.

Opening Story

It was early in the season.

Cold enough that every kid wanted batting gloves on between drills. Parents wrapped in blankets like we were watching baseball in Antarctica.

I was running infield.

Ground ball.

Missed it.

Again.

The same kid.

And if you’ve coached little league long enough, you know the internal spiral starts fast.

You begin as “encouraging coach.” Then suddenly you’re giving a TED Talk on fielding mechanics to a nine-year-old who still eats ketchup sandwiches.

“Come on buddy, get in front of it.”

“Stay down.”

“Watch the ball.”

Helpful coaching.

At least that’s what I told myself.

But the more I corrected him, the worse he got. His shoulders tightened. His feet slowed down. His eyes started panicking before the ball was even hit.

Then another kid made an error.

And another.

And suddenly the whole practice felt heavy.

Not competitive.

Heavy.

The kind of heavy where kids stop talking and coaches start overexplaining.

I could feel myself speeding up—talking more, correcting more, trying harder.

Which, ironically, was making everything worse.

That’s when I realized something.

Kids don’t just hear coaching.

They absorb environments.

Insight

Most coaches start with good intentions.

We really do.

We want to help. Teach. Build confidence. Help kids improve.

And we should.

Kids need coaching. They need standards. They need accountability. They need adults who push them. Competition is good. Learning how to handle pressure is good.

This isn’t about lowering standards.

It’s about how we carry them.

Because somewhere along the way, coaching can quietly become constant correction, frustration, pressure, and avoiding mistakes. Sometimes we start trying to turn nine-year-olds into MLB prospects before they can consistently remember where they left their water bottle.

And kids feel that shift immediately.

Especially the sensitive ones,

the anxious ones.

and the kids who desperately want your approval.

The best coaches understand something important:

You can be both.

Fun and competitive.

Structured and encouraging.

Demanding and safe.

Increasing fun doesn’t mean you stop caring about winning. It means you understand what actually helps kids improve long term.

Good coaches help kids feel safe.

Great coaches help kids have fun AND get better through support and accountability.

The difference is often tone, facial expressions, body language, timing, and knowing when a kid needs pushing… and when they need belief.

Because fun is not the enemy of development.

It’s the doorway to it.

Kids stay where they feel:

• safe

• encouraged

• connected

• believed in

That’s why the best teams aren’t always the ones that win the most.

They’re the ones kids want to come back to.

The ones where kids leave practice sweaty, laughing, dirty, and already asking if there’s a game tomorrow.

Why It Works

When kids feel embarrassed, afraid of mistakes, or constantly under pressure, their brain shifts from learning mode into survival mode.

Fight.

Flight.

Freeze.

You can actually watch it happen in youth sports.

One kid gets angry.

One starts avoiding the ball.

One completely shuts down.

And for a lot of kids, mistakes don’t just feel like mistakes.

They feel like threat.

Like embarrassment.

Like shame.

The Compass of Shame shows up in dugouts more than most adults realize.

And the wild part?

Most coaches don’t even realize they’re helping trigger it. Not because they’re bad coaches. Because they’re dysregulated. Their frustration speeds up. Their tone sharpens. Their face tightens. Their body language changes. And suddenly a kid who was trying to learn baseball…

is now trying to survive embarrassment. That’s why regulation matters so much.

The way we talk.

The way we look.

The way we act.

All of it affects whether a kid stays in survival mode… or comes out of it. We can become the reason they stay stuck there. Or the reason they feel safe enough to take risks again. Because when kids are not in survival mode, they laugh more, try more, recover faster, take coaching better, and honestly…

play better.

The best coaches know how to bring energy without bringing threat. They know how to challenge kids without making them feel unsafe. That balance changes everything. Because confidence develops best when challenge and support exist together.

Not pressure by itself. Support. Because long after they forget the score…

they’ll remember how playing for you felt.

And honestly?

Most kids would rather strike out with a coach they trust than play perfectly for one that makes them miserable.

Reset This Week

At your next practice or game…

watch the dugout more than the scoreboard.

Notice:

• who shuts down after mistakes

• who needs encouragement

• who changes when pressure rises

• who’s currently eating sunflower seeds like it’s their full-time job

And before you correct something…

regulate yourself first.

Lower your tone.

Slow your pace.

Relax your face.

Actually be calm.

Not pretend calm.

Then challenge a kid and encourage them in the same moment.

“Good. I know you can do this. Let’s try it again.”

Because the goal isn’t just better players.

It’s kids who still love the game.

Turns out…

it usually means doing less.

In the article, it was one of those “this should be easy” moments.
A short stretch. A small hill. A kid who can do it.

And me… standing there with that quiet pressure building.

I knew he could do it.
Which is exactly what made it worse.

Because the moment didn’t need more pushing.
It needed less of me.

You’ll feel it before you say it.

That frustration.
That urge to push.
That “come on… just do it.”

That’s the moment.

Not when you snap.

Before it.

This Week’s Fieldwork

1. Catch it early

Not when it comes out.

When it starts.

The sigh.
The look.
The thought:

“They should be able to do this.”

2. Regulate first

Before you help them…

Lower your tone.
Slow your pace.
Relax your face.

Actually be calm.

(Not pretend calm. Kids can smell that.)

3. Stay with them

Don’t fix it.
Don’t rush it.

Shrink the moment.

“Let’s just get to that tree.”

Why This Works

Kids don’t just respond to what you say...

they respond to what you bring.

When you bring pressure, they feel it.

When you bring calm, they borrow it.

And that’s what gives them a chance to keep going.

Under stress, our brains default fast.

We speed up.
We push harder.
We try to fix the moment.

But kids don’t need a better fix in that moment.

They don’t need you to prove they can do it.
They need you to help them feel like they can.

They need a calmer person standing next to them.

When you slow down first, it gives them space to do the same.

And that’s usually what helps them take the next step.

Closing Reminder

The next time your kid hits the wall…

Don’t start with them.

Start with you.

Start with your tone.

Not theirs.

one-take garage talk for dads trying to stay present, regulate under pressure, and lead their families a little better than last time.

This week’s reset started when my kids stopped asking me to play Mario Kart.

What started as family fun slowly turned into Dad dominating Rainbow Road like a blue-shell tyrant.

In this episode I talk about competition, connection, resilience, and why racing as Baby Peach in a pink scooter may have accidentally made me a better dad.

This episode also includes the related article - Friday Fieldwork:
The Drift Reset.

Real stories. Practical resets.

Referenced in this episode

• Reset: Crushing Your Kids at Mario Kart

• Friday Fieldwork: Making Mario Kart Your New Favorite Parenting Tool

After the sticker shock of a trampoline park the day before, I wanted something free, outside, and new.

Enter mountain biking.

In my head, this was it, dad-of-the-year stuff. Fresh air. Adventure. Just enough challenge to push them. The perfect mix: fun with a hidden layer of growth underneath. Building resilience without them even realizing it.

LIFE CHANGING.

At least… that’s how I pictured it. We’d come back tired, proud, maybe even a little transformed. I’d sit there thinking, nailed it.

We’ve biked all over town the last couple summers, so I did what every dad does: I asked ChatGPT for a trail, picked one about an hour away, and pretended I knew exactly what we were getting into.

We loaded up the bikes and headed out. Somewhere between nervous and excited, we rolled onto a trail none of us had ever been on.

It started off great…

small climbs, fast downhills. I was coaching gears like I knew what I was doing. They took turns leading. Beautiful day. Lots of laughs. A couple near-misses when someone in the back didn’t anticipate the brakes in the front. We recovered, we laughed, we kept moving. It turns out we’re better at recovery than spacing.

And for a while… it felt exactly like I imagined.

Then we hit the middle.

About halfway through, Hunter had to dismount on a climb he couldn’t get up. He said it: “I’m done.”

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just… done.

If you’ve been there, you know what that means, not just tired. Legs burning. Breathing off. Confidence starting to slip. And now every hill feels bigger than it actually is.

This wasn’t the highlight reel anymore.

This was the part no one talks about.

The Moment Every Dad Feels

This is the moment…

when the vision in your head meets reality in front of you.

Push him? Fix it? Pull him out?

You can feel all three at once: “Come on, you’re fine.” “Let’s just walk it out.” “We can turn around.”

And if I’m honest, that wasn’t the only voice in my head. There was an older one too, the one I grew up with.

“Suck it up.” “Don’t show weakness.” “Quitting is for losers.”

It sounds like encouragement. It doesn’t feel like it when you’re the one on the bike.

I could feel it creeping in…

not out loud, but underneath. Frustration building. Because I knew something.

His legs weren’t done.

His mind was.

And that’s the part that gets you. When you know they can do it and they keep stopping, it’s easy to shift…

helping to pushing, encouraging to demanding. I’ve gone there before. Too many times.

But here’s what I’ve learned the hard way: if I let that frustration leak out, even a little, it makes everything worse.

Hunter’s an empath. He can smell frustration like a drug dog at an airport. A look. A sigh. A slightly sharper tone. And the second he senses it? His world gets smaller. The trail gets harder. “I can’t” gets louder. So before I could help him regulate…

I had to regulate myself.

Lower my tone. Slow my pace. Actually be calm...

not just pretend to be.

Because kids don’t respond to what we say.

They respond to what we bring.

There was another layer too: I had no idea where the quickest way back to the car was. Turn around? Keep going? Either way…

we were in it.

And weirdly, that helped. It forced me to stay in the moment instead of escape it.

Don’t pretend it’s not hard. But don’t let that be the reason we quit.

Because I’ve started to notice something over time: every time I remove the hard part too quickly, I also remove the exact moment where confidence has a chance to form.

What We Did Instead

We slowed it down...

not the trail, the moment.

We didn’t talk about finishing. We talked about the next section, then the next turn, then just getting to that tree.

No big speech. No “life lesson.”

Just staying in it.

Together.

While we did that, I wasn’t watching his legs.

I was watching his head.

Because once a kid decides they can’t, everything starts to feel like proof...

every hill, every bump, every mistake. It builds a case. A convincing one.

But if they stay in it long enough, long enough to interrupt that pattern with even a small win, something shifts.

Not all at once. Not dramatically.

Just enough.

A hill he made it up. A section he didn’t walk. A breath that came back under control.

And then…

he wasn’t done anymore.

We rode that last stretch back to the car, and like every well-planned dad adventure, there was a stash of gummy bears and chocolate waiting. This may or may not have been the real motivation the whole time.

But this is the part that matters most, the part we usually rush past, the part where we shape what they remember about the struggle.

We sat there, eating sugar like we earned it. I asked what their favorite part was. They shared jumps, hills, moments where they felt unstoppable.

Then I asked what the hardest part was. They shared that too.

And I watched Hunter’s face change.

His brothers talked about their own struggles...

where they almost got off, where they doubted themselves.

And you could see it click.

He wasn’t the only one.

When Hunter shared, it sounded different.

Not defeated.

Confident.

Like someone who didn’t just struggle…

but made it through.

What I’m Learning

There’s a difference between helping your kid… and saving them.

Helping stays with them.

Saving feels good in the moment, but it doesn’t travel with them the next time things get hard.

James 1:2–4 puts words to this in a way I keep coming back to: “Consider it pure joy… whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.”

That’s what I want for my boys...

not a life without hard, but a life where they know how to move through it, where they trust themselves, and know they’re not alone in it...

even when it feels like they are.

Why It Matters

Confidence isn’t built when things are easy.

It’s built right after “I can’t.”

But only if they stay in it long enough to see something different.

There’s something happening in the brain in that moment. When a kid hits “I can’t,” their brain starts looking for proof that they’re right...

every missed hill, every mistake, every hard breath. It builds a story, and the longer they stay stuck in it, the more real it feels.

But when they stay in it just a little longer—and experience even a small win—something shifts. Their brain starts updating the story.

“I can’t” becomes “maybe I can.”

And then eventually… “I did.”

That’s how confidence is built, not from avoiding the hard, but from experiencing it and making it through.

Reset This Week

When your kid hits the wall, don’t rush to remove it. Stay with them in it. Break it down. Slow it down. Help them take one more step, then another.

Not to prove something.

Just to keep going.

And start with you…

your tone, your pace, your presence.

Because if you can regulate that…

you give them a chance to regulate theirs.

Don’t steal the hard part from them.

That’s where the growth is.

And most of the time…

They’re closer than they think.

(Spring break: where “more time together” becomes a full-contact sport.)

Earlier this week I wrote about how my boys fight more the longer they’re together—and how the real issue isn’t what they’re fighting about, but how they’re talking to each other in the middle of it.

If you missed it, you can read it here:

Most arguments don’t spiral because of what happened.

They spiral because of how we say it.

This week’s Fieldwork is about one simple shift that changes the tone fast:

I statements.

This Week’s Fieldwork

1. Introduce the I statement

Teach one simple sentence:

“I felt ___ when ___.”

Keep it basic.

“I felt frustrated when that happened.”

“I felt annoyed when you said that.”

(Yes, it will feel weird at first. So does anything that actually works.)

2. Listen for the conflict

Don’t try to stop the argument.

Just listen for the language:

• “You always…”

• “That’s not fair…”

• “He did it on purpose…”

That’s your cue.

3. Coach the rep

When you hear it:

Slow it down.

“Try that again using an I statement.”

If they do it—even a little—call it out.

“Hey… that was better.”

If they don’t?

No lecture.

Just another rep.

Why This Works

1. It slows the speaker down

You can’t say what you felt without figuring out what you felt.

That pause interrupts the reaction.

2. It creates empathy

Emotions are easier to hear than accusations.

“I felt frustrated” lands very differently than “You’re being annoying.”

3. It opens the door to resolution

You’re not attacking the person.

You’re naming the experience.

And that makes it easier to actually solve something.

Closing Reminder

You don’t have to stop every argument.

You just have to change how it sounds.

Because…