They Never Thought They Wouldn’t Be

When our two boys were young, their playground was a ballpark. Any ballpark.

I remember watching them play catch before a tournament game we were about to begin at what was then Minute Maid Park, home of the Houston Astros.

There were already 15,000–20,000 people in their seats, but the boys just kept playing catch like they were in the backyard.

They couldn’t have cared less about who was watching. Or how many.

Can you imagine being that free to enjoy playing the game?

No fear of failure.

No thought of embarrassment.

No concern about what anybody else thought.

Just playing catch.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could bottle that mindset and have every player we coach drink it?

And maybe take a swig ourselves.

I once received a call from another dad who had watched our boys play catch before games. He was amazed at how well they could throw and catch at such young ages.

He wanted to know what I had done. How had I taught them? What drills had we used?

He wanted his boys to learn to do the same things.

Specifically, he asked, “Do you have any suggestions on how I can get my boys to play catch like yours?”

My response?

“Quit your current job. Get a job as a baseball coach. And take your boys to work with you.”

I was kidding, of course.

But only partly.

Our boys grew up around baseball. They watched college players practice and compete. They watched them throw, catch, hit, run, and make plays. And they spent countless hours trying to do the same things.

Nobody had to convince them that someday they could do what those older players were doing.

They just assumed they would.

They became good at baseball because they never thought they wouldn’t be.

Watching our boys, along with so many other coaches’ kids I’ve known, has convinced me that one of the best ways for young players to learn the game is much the same way they learned to walk.

Think about it.

A child begins by watching. Then crawling. Then pulling himself up, only to fall back down.

Eventually, he stands.

Then comes that first step.

And another fall.

And another attempt.

Nobody has to explain the mechanics of walking. There are no lectures about balance, stride length, or proper foot placement.

There is simply an opportunity to try. And fail. And try again.

With plenty of encouragement from the crowd!

And here’s what I find most interesting.

The child never interprets falling as evidence that he isn’t going to learn to walk.

He doesn’t question whether he belongs among those who walk.

He just gets up and tries again.

Some children learn earlier than others. Some take longer. But most eventually learn to walk.

They learn by doing.

By watching. Experimenting. Failing. Adjusting. And trying again.

What if we approached teaching young baseball players with that same understanding?

What if making an error was simply part of learning to field a ground ball, rather than an occasion for embarrassment?

What if striking out was part of learning to hit, rather than evidence that a player wasn’t a good hitter?

What if young players were as unconcerned about their mistakes as toddlers are about falling?

I wonder how much more quickly they might learn.

And how much more they might enjoy learning.

Of course, there is much more to becoming a good baseball player than simply believing you will become one. Skills have to be developed. The game has to be understood. And good instruction certainly matters.

But I’ve come to believe that what a player expects of himself has a tremendous influence on what he eventually becomes.

And those expectations are shaped by the environment in which he learns.

Our boys had another advantage growing up around college baseball.

They knew what good looked like.

They had watched good players perform thousands of times. They understood things about the game long before anyone formally taught them.

And they developed opinions!

There were many occasions when they came home from practice, from Coach-Pitch all the way through high school, with a story about something their coach was teaching or asking the team to do.

Something they thought was wrong.

More often than not, I agreed with them.

Which usually led to another conversation.

“Always listen to your coach. Try to do what he’s asking you to do. But when the game starts, just play!”

There’s something valuable about learning from a coach you don’t always agree with.

It forces you to think.

To consider why you believe what you believe.

Sometimes you discover you were wrong. Other times, having your beliefs challenged makes them stronger.

And sometimes you learn that even good coaches make bad decisions.

I know our boys learned that lesson!

Being questioned about a pitching change I made—or didn’t make—wasn’t unusual.

And the questions were always deserved.

There’s nothing quite like having your own sons critique your coaching decisions.

Apparently, Florida football coach Jon Sumrall has discovered that, too.

Following a loss to South Carolina, Sumrall shared a text he received from his 13-year-old son, Sam, who had left The Swamp before the game ended.

“I don’t know that this is forgivable.”

I laughed when I read that.

There’s something special about growing up as a coach’s kid.

You get to see the game from a perspective few others experience. You learn to love it, understand it, question it, and sometimes question the man who taught it to you.

But I keep coming back to that picture of two little boys playing catch in a Major League ballpark.

Thousands of people watching.

Not a care in the world.

They weren’t trying to impress anybody.

They weren’t trying to prove they belonged.

They weren’t even thinking about whether they were good enough.

They were simply playing.

And they never imagined that they wouldn’t be good at it.

I wonder how many young players begin with that same expectation, only to lose it somewhere along the way.

And I wonder how often we, as coaches and parents, unintentionally contribute to that loss.

Maybe one of the most important things we can do for young players isn’t to convince them they can become good.

Maybe it’s to protect the expectation they already have.

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