He Went 0-for-6. I Made it Worse.
A car ride home I wish I could take back—and the mistake too many sports parents make after a bad game.
“Aren’t you embarrassed?” I said to my son.
It was just the two of us. He was upset. He had just gone 0-for-6. It was a Sunday, bracket play, so that meant the tournament was over. I was upset, too. I said some things I shouldn’t have, things I’m ashamed of now.
“You were hitless today!” I barked, glaring at him in the rearview mirror. “What’s going on? Were you nervous? Your timing was off. Your swings looked terrible. I’m not paying for more hitting lessons until you figure this out.”
And then he started to cry.
It wasn’t the weak ground balls or the rollovers. It was me.
And we both knew it.
I put together a short playbook for parents—what to say (and what not to say) after the game.
I stopped or he stopped me. I don’t remember.
I just know I was yelling—and then he yelled, “Alright! Knock it off!” and threw his water bottle.
He was in the back seat, which is where he sat on the way home when he knew I was upset with his performance. He sat up front with me when he played well.
This wasn’t Little League, so home wasn’t down the hill. This was travel ball. We had a half-hour drive ahead of us.
We drove in silence for what felt like hours. Eventually I calmed down, knowing how badly I had hurt him—and how quickly his mom would figure out what had happened when we walked in the door.
It’s a moment I wish I could take back. But it changed how I parent Alex—and how I approach the car ride home.
That night I apologized.
“Dad has no right to make you feel that way,” I told him. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
I meant it. I also knew I’d have to prove it—not just to him, but to Elizabeth too.
This was a couple years ago before Alex started playing with CBA San Diego. He was 10.
Back then I thought the car ride home was about fixing his swing.
I was wrong.
Alex is 12 now. When we drive home from tournaments, I’m his biggest fan.
I don’t cheer unless the moment calls for it. Usually it’s a fist bump, an attaboy or two, and sometimes a hand on his chest or forearm for a moment.
I follow his lead. I can usually tell how he’s feeling before we get in the truck. He always sits up front with me now.
The music comes on—usually hip-hop. Biggie is a favorite. “Did you see that catch I made?” he might say, eyes wide. Or, “Dad, I smoked that ball!”
If he had a rough game, it’s different. I’ll turn on the music. I’ll ask if he wants to stop for a burger. Usually, he doesn’t.
During those drives, there’s a lot of silence at first. That’s okay.
Eventually he’ll say something like, “What was wrong with my swing today?” Or something harsher.
Hitting is hard. And while Alex loves to pitch, what he loves more than anything is barreling a baseball. He’s trained to focus on process, not results. But that’s easier said than done after a tough game.
“You took good swings today, bud. And you were a tough out. That’s what matters,” I tell him.
When he shrugs, I’ll say: “I know you’re disappointed with your performance at the plate, but that play you made at shortstop—that was awesome! You were lights out on the mound this weekend too. And I heard you talking out there, being a leader and a good teammate.”
When Alex owns the box, the game looks easy.
A couple weekends ago in Arizona, he turned on a ball that one-hopped a 260-foot fence—ground-rule double. He told me he thought it was going out. Not bad for a kid not known for his size.
Once, when I was managing him in Little League, I started to give him instruction while he was on deck.
He stopped me.
“Dad, I’ve got this,” he said.
He crushed it.
Less is more.
Let him invite me in. If he goes negative, don’t meet him there.
I can see the tension fade from his face. By the time we get home—or to In-N-Out—he’s Alex again.
Sometimes he heads straight to the backyard to hit. Sometimes he collapses on the couch and watches a random baseball game. Sometimes he jumps in the pool with his twin brother.
Almost always, there’s a moment later that night, just the two of us again.
“Dad, I’m going to stay inside the ball tomorrow,” he might say.
Or, “I’m gonna be on time and take better swings.”
“I know, bud. I believe in you. Do you believe in yourself?” I ask.
He nods. I kiss him goodnight.
I remember a car ride home when I was a kid that didn’t go so well.
Different sport, different situation.
But I remember exactly how it felt.
Those moments stay with you.
Perspective helps. But it’s hard to see when you’re in it—especially in the car.
Most of these kids won’t play beyond high school. Many won’t even get that far.
They’re out there because they love it, because they want to compete, because their friends are out there.
I’ve come to realize the car ride home isn’t the only moment that shapes young athletes.
The more I watch youth sports, and the more mistakes I make, the more I see the same moments come up again and again.
The nerves before a game.
The tough inning that won’t end.
The voice from the stands.
The quiet comparison to another kid.
And, of course, the car ride home.
The moments that shape young ballplayers don’t happen in isolation—they’re shaped by the environments adults create. Coaching, playing time, politics, all play a role.
But if there’s one that matters most, it’s the ride home.
Because what we say—or don’t say—stays with them.
Those car rides used to be the hardest part of a tournament weekend—for both of us.
I thought my job was to fix his swing. But my job is much simpler:
Make sure he still loves the game when we get home.
And still wants to play catch with me.
The Car Ride Home Playbook
·If you've ever said the wrong thing, or not known what to say, this will help. 👇🏻
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My essays are built around the 5 Moments That Shape Young Ballplayers, from the nerves before a game to the car ride home.
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