Every drill, you watch her a beat longer than the other kids. Not to praise her. To catch her. Because if you praise her, somebody in a folding chair might mutter the word “favorites.” So the one kid on that team who can't get a fair shake from coach is yours.
Hey, it's Sammy. This is the Hey Sammy Podcast. Real questions from real sports parents answered without the fence talk.
Today, the coach dad and the daughter paying the tax on his fear of looking biased. This one's from Greg in St. Louis. He writes, “I coach my daughter's team and I'm terrified of being accused of playing favorites, so I'm actually harder on her. Is that fair to her?”
Greg, you already know the answer because you put it in the question. No, it's not fair. But I want to give you credit before I take you apart a little. The fact that you're asking means you've noticed her paying.
Plenty of coach-parents run this exact play for years and call it integrity. Here's what it actually is: favoritism aimed backwards. She's being treated differently than every other kid on that roster because of who her father is. That's the exact thing you were trying to avoid. The folding chairs just approve of this version.
And here's what the folding chairs never see. Ask kids of coach parents what the hard part is, and it's almost never the field. It's that Dad never turns it off.
The drill critique that follows them into the car. The film session at dinner. Being coached at practice, coached at breakfast, coached at, um, their own birthday parties? The whistle comes home and the dad disappears inside the coach. That's the real risk here, not what the other parents mutter, what she remembers about you at 25.
So here's the system, and it's simple enough to start Tuesday. Two hats with a hard line between them. On the field, you're coach. She gets what everyone gets, the same praise when she earns it, said out loud, at full volume. If she makes the best pass of practice, she hears it like anyone would. Fair means equal, not extra hard.
And when a correction is touchy, hand it to your assistant. Let another voice coach her sometimes. It keeps the air clean for both of you.
Then, the moment practice ends, the hat comes off, and you say so out loud. “Okay, Dad now...” Sounds silly? Works like magic. Because now the car ride is a car ride, not a film session.
Dad-time talk is her call. If she brings up practice, fine. If she wants to talk about anything else on earth, better. And there's one move that beats everything else I've said. If you're brave enough. Catch yourself out loud. The first time you hear the whistle voice at your own dinner table, name it in front of her.
“Whoops, that was Coach talking. Dad's back.” She will absolutely roast you for it, and that's the point! You've just made the two hats something you both can see, um, and joke about, and police together.
A kid who's allowed to say, “Dad, you're coaching again,” has a lever. Kids with levers don't build resentment. They pull the lever.
And find yourself one assistant who's allowed to call it too. Somebody on your staff or another parent you trust, with standing permission.
“Hey, ease up! That's your kid!” Every coach-parent needs one honest mirror at field level. The folding chairs don't count. As for those chairs, let them mutter. They were going to anyway. You could bench her all season and somebody would still find a theory. Bleachers produce opinions the way fields produce grass. Stop coaching for that audience. Coach for the team, and father for the girl.
And keep one thing for yourself in all of this. Coaching your own kid, done even halfway right, is one of the great gifts of this whole circus. A few years from now the folding chairs are strangers, and what's left is her at 25, saying, “My dad coached me.” Make sure the sentence she says after that one is worth hearing. That's the actual season you're playing.
One brave question this week. Ask her, “What's it like having me as your coach?” And don't defend a single answer. Then just carry what you hear.
That's the show! Coach parents, tell me how the two hats are fitting. hey@heysami.com. I know this one's close to home for a lot of you.
