Nerves Aren't the Problem
It's what we add to them.
I received a message from a baseball mom after I wrote about a dad criticizing his son from the fence line during a recent tryout.
“I am pretty sure he was fine with our son, but he was calling and texting me about every mistake,” she wrote. “I was already so nervous for my son to have a good day—it was killing me to keep getting the negative feedback from my husband. I had to tell him to stop.”
She followed up with more.
“I’ve seen dads, including my husband at times, behave like this. It breaks my heart for the kids. Maybe if more men discuss this issue openly, it will help. Maybe remind dads not to redirect their frustrations to mom too.”
Unlike the dad I had written about, her husband wasn’t barking at his son, but there’s a good chance that kid felt his dad’s disapproval during the tryout.
She continued: “Turns out, everything my husband was frustrated about came down to a strained rotator cuff. Now we’re in rest and recovery mode and ready to fight again another day. Something the instructors said out there really resonated with my son. He’s handling this setback well and for that I am grateful.”
Kids are going to feel the pressure. Before the game. During it. At tryouts. Even at practice sometimes. That’s part of it.
The problem isn’t the nerves.
It’s what we add to them.
I talked about this recently with mental performance coach Dave Austin, who works with big leaguers. I’ll share our full conversation next week. This story he told about a dad behind the backstop says a lot (click here to watch on mobile):
Nerves spike when kids feel like they’re letting down mom or dad.
If we’re not careful, we add to that pressure—on the way to the field, in the driveway, even from the stands—and it stays with them longer than any strikeout does.
What we say, how we react, and what they think we expect—it matters more than we realize.
We have a rule in our house: no coaching once we leave the driveway. It gives Alex the space he needs to get locked in without me filling the silence with reminders he’s already heard a hundred times. The drive also is a chance for me to lock in: to clear my head and be present for what’s ahead.
One of his coaches sent a pretty direct email to parents in the fall. He said there was too much coaching from the stands and none of it was helping.
“Trust me when I tell you that reminding them what to do in a game DOES NOT WORK,” he wrote. “All the parent coaching and reminders should happen in the days, weeks, and years leading up to that moment. Not in the moment.”
He added: “These kids have the pressure of the world on their shoulders, and nothing you say in that moment is going to change the outcome of the next play.”
It’s a message coaches have to deliver more often than you’d think.
And it’s not just about adding pressure. Problem parents create problems for their kids with coaches. That’s the last thing any of us want.
I’ve seen kids lose their confidence in the on-deck circle—not because they’re afraid of the pitcher. They’re afraid of disappointing dad, who is pacing behind the backstop, looking like he’s about to put his life savings on black—or like he just lost his whole stack of chips.
Kids feel everything. The body language. The reactions. The tension.
“He sees you, so it doesn’t matter what you say,” my wife has said to me more than once from the stands.
Alex doesn’t feel nerves the same way in every part of the game, and neither do I.
I do feel some anxiety when he’s on the mound, but that fades quickly if I see he’s in the zone. Same thing when he’s playing shortstop and when he’s up to bat. I am a lot less anxious than I used to be, and when he’s in the outfield, I feel like I’m at the beach. That’s also how I feel when he’s playing flag football.
“Feel good, play good,” is what Alex’s pitching coach told him recently. Then he said something I’m still thinking about. “Positivity from the parents is key. Whenever they look over, we want to be pumping our fists, clapping for them, smiling. I heard a dad of a major leaguer say he still does that for his son.”
The tension seems thickest for these kids in the box, and that’s no accident. It’s the place on the field where parents are closest to the action. In those moments, they pick up on everything—the good and the bad.
Nerves also spike at the plate because hitting is hard. Sometimes the moment speeds up, and instead of trusting what they’re trained to do, batters start pressing. The mind gets in the way. The thinker overtakes the athlete. It happens at every level.
I’ve had to learn not to add pressure to those moments.
When those moments surface—usually on the walk to my truck after a game or on the drive home—I try to keep it simple.
I remind Alex nerves are normal, that he’s prepared, and that his job is to trust what he’s worked on. Not the result. The work. “Embrace the pressure,” I tell him. “You feel that way because you care.”
And then I try to stop talking.
Because the goal isn’t to eliminate the nerves. It’s to be the parent who doesn’t make them worse.
I don’t always get this stuff right. Not even close. But I’ve been trying to get better at the moments that matter—especially after the game, when everything we say seems to carry more weight.
If you’ve ever come home from a game thinking you made things harder for your kid, I’ve been there too.
I’ve been working on what that moment is supposed to feel like.
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Baseball Dad & PR Guy is a weekly newsletter about youth sports culture and how parents and coaches shape the experience for young athletes.
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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.
From the stands, I write about those moments and what they mean for confidence, identity, and a kid’s love of the game.
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