Last week I was at my son’s baseball game when I realized something…

It’s hard for me to watch my kids play sports.

Not because they aren’t athletic or talented (thank goodness they take after their mother).

It’s because I can’t help but see myself out there.

Somehow, when they step onto the field, a part of me goes with them.

And it’s not the part of me that’s confident and athletic.

It’s the part of me that’s terrified to mess up.

Every misplay, dropped ball, strikeout, stumble, whiff—I have a visceral response.

I remember what it was like being that kid out there. I remember the overwhelming fear of failure.

It was never about doing my best, showing up, and finding opportunities to improve.

It was about avoiding defeat.

I didn’t handle failure well.

In Little League, if I didn’t reach base, I’d melt down. I’d cry, throw my bat. My emotional dysregulation was on full display.

It wasn’t that I got out. It was that failure proved something damning about me—people could see the “real” me. The me that crumbles in the big moment.

My self-worth was dependent on my athletic performance. It was a tremendous burden. It wasn’t about participation, it was about validation.

Watching my own kids, I worry that they feel the same way. Does my son feel like every eye is on him if he misses a grounder? Does he feel the judgement? Does he question his self-worth?

Sports are meant to be fun. I only allowed myself to have fun if I was succeeding.

That’s a lesson that I’ve tried hard not to pass on to my kids. There’s so much to be gained from sports—the teamwork, camaraderie, being active.

I’m working hard to let my kids live their own experience. I want them to know that failure is inevitable in life. That’s one of the great lessons of sports. How we handle failure is what’s most important.

Fortunately, the next generation seems to have it figured out. My kids don’t carry the self-doubt I did. They’re learning how to handle defeat without losing control.

If I struck out, I would melt down and throw my bat. If my son strikes out, he calmly walks himself back to the dugout and waits for his next chance. No tears, no tantrums.

I’m filled with pride. He’s already so far ahead of where I was at his age.

Is it still painful to remember my own experience with sports? Sure.

But when I watch my kids, I see them play with a joy I spent years trying to earn. That makes it a whole lot easier to be a spectator…and a dad!

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