07/21/2026
Everyone talks about the supposed “advantages” of being the coach’s kid—the extra reps, the lineup spot, and having a parent holding the clipboard.
But few people talk about what it costs that child.
While other players look into the stands and see a dad who came just to watch them, the coach’s kid looks into the dugout and sees his dad belonging to everyone else. For those few hours, he has to share his hero with an entire team.
He watches his dad celebrate a teammate’s hit, encourage them after an error, and tell them how proud he is. But when it’s his turn, the praise may be quieter and the expectations higher—not because his dad loves him less, but because he’s afraid someone will call it favoritism.
So the coach’s kid learns to accept a small nod when what he really wants to hear is, “That’s my boy.”
He is often corrected first and congratulated last. He may work twice as hard, receive half the credit, and still hear adults suggest everything was handed to him. Every mistake is magnified, every opportunity questioned, and every success given an invisible asterisk by people who forget they’re talking about a child.
To every parent holding the lineup card: Don’t become so determined to prove you’re fair that your own child begins to feel forgotten.
When the game ends, put down the clipboard. Tell your child you saw their effort. Tell them you loved watching them play. Remind them that before they were ever one of your players, they were your child.
The season will end. The uniforms will be outgrown, and the dusty cleats will be packed away. But the way you made your child feel will remain.
The clipboard is temporary. Being their parent is forever.
Let’s cheer for every kid in the dirt—including the one who goes home with the coach.
To every coach’s kid: We see the pressure you carry, we see how hard you work, and we’re cheering for you, too. ❤️⚾️
