I’ve been a dad for almost eight years at this point. And I went from zero to ninety when it came to parenthood: I had three kids at once. Well, nearly at once: 10 weeks and a day apart.

There’s no manual for how to parent, and even if there was, if you're wired like me, you toss the manual out the window and start building the plane while flying it. Because you truly can't know what to expect from parenthood. You learn on the job. 

I only had one childhood. One dad. As much as I have come to see the ways he parented wrong, and vowed to do it differently, the wiring was already there. The fears from how I was parented were still alive and well inside me. And once my son started playing competitive soccer at 6 years old, a switch was flicked and those fears lit back up.

Growing up, I played football from fifth grade through high school. My father was a high school football star and if you’ve seen Friday Night Lights or Varsity Blues, then you know how hard it is for adults to let go of past glory. My dad was no exception. I played because of him. For him. To win his love. But I played out of fear. And while I could outrun defenders as a teenager, at 46-years old, I’ve yet to outrun the fears he instilled in me.

One of my more formative memories during my adolescent years happened after my first game of each season. Every year, for eight consecutive years. 

My father would tell me to sit in the front seat. He would then proceed to berate me for the entire thirty-minute drive home. He would tell me what a big pussy I was. That if I was going to play like a pussy, I should quit and play tennis–a girls sport in his mind. I wouldn’t say a word. It seemed better to be invisible and just take it than incur any wrath by trying to explain or justify. 

Once I had kids of my own, I told myself that I’d do things differently–I’d be the complete opposite of my dad. 

At my son's first soccer game, at age six, I told him that if he scored three goals, I’d buy him a LEGO set. I wanted him to try hard, and I figured some external motivation would work. 

He scored six goals that day. He came off the field with a big smile on his face. “Daddy, do I get a LEGO set?” he asked. “Of course, son." I said. "That’s what I promised. Good job today. I’m proud of you.” 

The next week, he didn’t score at all. I could see the frustration on his face as the game wore on. Afterwards, he was devastated. So I doubled down. I thought he was playing tentatively. I wanted him to be aggressive like some of the other boys. We had recently been watching some of the Avengers movies. I told him to play like The Hulk. We called it “Beast Mode.” 

It didn’t work. That’s not how my son plays. He’s smooth and composed. Not aggressive. Those were my fears dancing in the wires. Wishing he could be tough. Not weak like my father thought I was.

Here I was, repeating the cycle. Even though my positivity looked different than my dad's beratement, it was just as detrimental as negative critique. In my effort to not be my father, I became him, just in a different suit.

***

After that second game, I realized that I needed to change, but I didn't know how. 

When COVID came along, it provided me with the space I needed to figure my own shit out so I could get things right with my son. Pandemic protocols at soccer practices meant parents had to stay in the parking lot to watch the kids play. But I opted to sit in the car away from practice. Because watching him only caused me frustration–my own shit getting in the way. 

Instead, I’d watch the last 20 minutes or so of practice when they scrimmaged. Once practice was over, I tried a new angle, a concept I pulled from Daniel Pink's book, Drive. 

Instead of telling him the ten things he did wrong, I instead asked Bodhi the following question: “On a scale of 1-10, how’d you think you played?” If he said a 6, I’d ask, “What do you think you need to do to play like a 7?” It wasn't a drastic change, but was a start. 

And it propelled me forward: during my commute to work, I started listening to Micheal Lewis’ podcast, Against the Rules. The second season was all about coaching. In the third episode, he talks with Timothy Gallwey, author of The Inner Game of Tennis. 

I devoured the book over a single weekend. In the book, I learned about the concept of Self 1 and Self 2. Self 1 is the conscious self: the voice in your head that often manifests itself as our inner critic. 

Self 2, on the other hand, is our natural learning mode. It’s our subconscious. These two selves are in constant dialogue, and yet Self 1 often takes over. Self 1 is critical, pointing out our flaws. Hammering us for our mistakes. It tries to instruct Self 2 and in doing so, takes us out of the game. Instead of playing with what’s right in front of us, we are “in our heads.” And when that happens, it’s typically game over. 

The key is to learn how to tune out Self 1 and let the natural learning process embedded in Self 2 take over. It’s how we learn as children. Kids aren’t self-critical when they’re developing. They observe others, fall down, and get back up. They repeat actions until they master them.

***

Where we as parents (or coaches) get into trouble is when we try to instruct ourselves, or in this particular case, our kids, using words. 

This is because we often use too many words. When it comes to communicating with kids, we often overexplain, use terms kids can't understand, or simply say too much. This confuses and overwhelms kids, since their brains work best with minimal instruction. Kids learn through watching, or by simply trying things out. Over and over. Until they get it. As Timothy Gallwey puts, it:

“I was beginning to learn what all good pros and students of tennis must learn: that images are better

than words, showing better than telling, too much instruction worse than none, and that trying too hard

often produces negative results.”

Inspired by this work, I began to explore the path of becoming a professional coach. Not only as a career choice, but in order to become a better dad. And as that pandemic summer wore on, I remained committed to the process. I stopped instructing, and I started coaching. 

Today, after each game, Bodhi and I have our own little ritual as we walk back to the car. He jumps in the front seat with a smile on his face. I look at him and we go through the following ritual*(1):

“Here’s one thing I think you did well today…” And I explain one thing that I thought he did particularly well.

“What’s one thing you think you did well?” And I let him answer. Sometimes I will pry a little deeper. “Tell me more about that,” I’ll say. 

Next, I will say, “Here’s one thing that I think you need to work on…”