The Detective Work of Parenting (and Coaching)

Raising a young athlete often feels like detective work.

As best you can tell, you’re doing all the right things — the practices, the lessons, balancing tough love with emotional support. And, you are careful not to measure success by outcomes like batting average and ERA. You’re looking for sound fundamental approaches, strong athletic positions, and rhythmic movement. But, something is off. Just a couple examples for reference:

• He’s moving correctly off the mound but there’s no zip on the ball;

• His swing in the batting cage is working but during game contact is rare and when he does, it’s hit weakly;

• He says he loves baseball and is always happy to practice but in games, he’s distracted and goofing around.

You ask yourself the same exhausting question over and over: “What am I missing?”

It’s a puzzle with no clear lab to test your theories. You form hypotheses, run messy real-life experiments on the person you love most, and hope you’re not making things worse. Some days you feel like you’re cracking the case. Other days you’re throwing your hands up in frustration (usually where only your spouse can hear).

I’m living this too. And, while momentary frustration is understandable, working on and solving these tough problems is really what makes the endeavor endlessly interesting and rewarding.

My own son has demonstrated rapid improvement off the mound recently. From the outside, it looks like he simply flipped a switch. But the truth was more complicated. After an off season of workouts and training sessions, everything looked set for a successful spring season. I figured maybe there’d be some adjustment time because going from the gym to live games is a leap, but that usually resolves in a week or two.

About halfway through the season, we made a family trip to see my best friend and hitting expert. He suggested a change in approach at the plate which seemed to do the trick. And, when encouraged further along the same lines by another coach, it was clear he was both zeroing in on the timing needed to hit the ball hard and swinging with ferocity.

That latter aspect, I thought, was key. Hearing it from trusted, non-Dad voices, he’d decided to be aggressive. I figured the same would happen on the mound. But it didn’t! His pitching motion still looked good, but the ball was coming out slower than it seemed it should and even worse, his command was spotty at best.

Then, an interesting thing happened as I did my periodic health check-in, “How’s your arm feel?” His answer was, “good,” but the inflection on the word caught my attention. It had that little upsweep in tone… the voice of a young boy saying something true but a bit concerned about whether it is the right answer. I asked whether he was worried it might not be some times; if he had any concern of it getting hurt again. In a quiet, honest tone, he said, “Yes.”

Knowing that honest truth, we talked more about his fear, facing fear in general, all the ways we prepared to prevent further injury, and, to some extent, how we need to place our faith in something greater to overcome our fears and become our best selves. The mental block that was limiting his arm action and holding back his performance didn’t vanish immediately, but in a few games it had dissolved. And with that, outside observers are experiencing this massive leap forward. It was more like seven months of hard work deposits plus compounding interest in a frozen performance bank account that could suddenly be withdrawn.

I had completely overlooked the issue for a long time. Different mechanical fixes, different routines, different conversations… lots of misses by Coach Dad until we finally found the real issue.

This experience reinforced something I already believe deeply: The biggest breakthroughs usually aren’t physical.

They’re the hidden mental or emotional pieces that only show up when someone is really looking — patiently, persistently, and with care.

This is why my coaching goes far beyond mechanics and velocity. I bring a trained eye and a detective’s mindset to every athlete. I look for the things that aren’t obvious — the subtle fears, the invisible tension, the missing rhythm, the quiet doubt. Done well, this helps both the player and the parent finally understand and solve what’s been holding them back.