Hey Sammi — Win the Week
Episode 23August 5, 20265 minutes 47 seconds

How do I fix things after my kid watched me yell at the referee?

Short answer

You fix it by owning what happened, short and no excuses, and showing with your behavior at the next few games that it’s not who you want to be. Your kid doesn’t need a perfect parent in the bleachers. She needs to see you handle screwups, offer a real apology, and then actually change how you show up. Evidence beats promises, every time.

Kids don’t need parents who never break. They need parents who repair.

Questions this episode answers

  • What should I do if my kid won’t talk to me after I lose my cool at their game?
  • How do I apologize to my child when I’ve embarrassed them at a sport event?
  • How do I make sure my apology to my kid actually lands?

Sammi's Take

You yelled at the ref. Now your kid is looking at you different.

You know that moment. One bad call, one snap, and suddenly you’re staring down the barrel of a car ride where your daughter won’t even mention it, but you feel a shift. Maybe she won’t even hold your gaze as long as she used to. You’re not the first parent, and you sure won’t be the last, but now what?

Does not talking about it mean it blew over?

Honestly? No. Silence is not a reset button. Kids read the air better than half the adults in the bleachers. She saw her safest adult lose it—publicly, at another grown man, over her game. That’s big. For the next few days, she’s running the mental calculations: does the guy from last Saturday show up again this week, or was he a one-time deal?

Your job is to answer that question with your actions, not just your words.

What does a real repair look like?

Start here: shame is a lousy repair tool. There’s nothing heroic about mentally flogging yourself all week. That steady-in-the-pocket, I’m-not-afraid-to-own-it move does the real work.

It’s weird, but kids don’t need perfect parents. They need parents who can repair their own messes. If you can model that—owning it, apologizing, moving forward—that’s worth more than a lifetime of never making a mistake in the first place.

Keep the apology short. Don’t explain. Don’t justify. Don’t let “but that call was terrible” sneak in—“but” erases whatever honesty came before it. Try, “I was wrong Saturday. You deserved better from me out there, and I’m going to be different.” That’s it. Don’t follow it up with Are we okay? or circle back four more times. When you go on and on, you make it her job to fix your feelings. She’s got enough to manage.

How do I prove it won’t happen again?

Here’s where the rubber meets the road: the next three games. Give yourself an actual plan. Say it out loud. “I’m sitting farther from the officials.” Or, “I’m chewing gum like it owes me money.” (That one’s a personal favorite.) Whatever works to keep that lid on.

She doesn’t need you perfect. What she needs is three quiet Saturdays in a row. Evidence beats promises every single time. If she circles back weeks from now—yeah, I hated how I acted too. Let her test whether your repair actually held. Every steady, unfazed answer sets the foundation a little deeper.

Why does any of this matter more than one loud moment?

Today’s blown call is tomorrow’s bad boss, random teacher, life’s pile of unfair referees. How you handle this is the real play. Maybe last week she saw what it looks like to lose control…but this week, you get to show what it looks like to fix it.

That’s the legacy—kids who grow up knowing how to repair. You’re not raising a robot who never screws up. You’re raising someone who doesn’t disappear when they do.

So try this: “I was wrong Saturday, and you deserved better from me.” Full stop. No speech. Then back it up with three quiet weeks.

You’ll both remember that longer than the score.

Tired of juggling six sports apps? Put Sammi to work

Episode transcript

Read full transcript

This podcast is part of the Sports Social Podcast Network.

It was one call, one bad call, and something in you snapped. For 30 seconds, you were that parent. Your daughter didn't say anything on the ride home. She hasn't said anything since. But she looks at you a half second longer than she used to.

Hi everyone, I'm Sammy. Welcome to the Hey Sammy Podcast.

Every day I read one question from a real sports parent and answer it like a friend would. Today, the dad who yelled at the ref and the kid who saw it.

This one's from Rob in Cincinnati. He writes, I yelled at a referee last weekend and my daughter saw the whole thing. She hasn't mentioned it, but I can tell something shifted. How do I handle this?

Rob, first, credit where it's due. You noticed the shift. A lot of parents would have told themselves it blew over. You didn't. And that instinct is the whole reason this is fixable.

So put down the shovel you've been hitting yourself with. Shame makes lousy repairs. We need you steady for what comes next.

Now let me tell you what she actually saw, because it wasn't about the referee. She saw the safest adult in her life lose control, in public, at a grown man, over her game. That's scary at any age.

And there's a second layer—her worlds collided out there. The field is her place, with her people watching. For 30 seconds, you made yourself the loudest thing in it. So her silence isn't punishment; she's recalculating, quietly asking whether that guy shows up again next Saturday.

Your job this week is to answer that question. Here's the good news, and I mean this: kids don't need parents who never break. They need parents who repair. Done right, the repair teaches her something better than never seeing you angry.

It teaches her that adults can own it when they blow it. She will use that lesson in every relationship she ever has. But the repair has to be clean. So here's the anatomy. Short. No excuses. And absolutely no, "but that call was terrible." The word "but" deletes everything in front of it.

An apology with a justification inside it is just a defense with better manners. Something like, I was wrong Saturday. You deserved better from me out there, and I'm going to be different. That's it. Then stop talking.

Don't ask if we're okay now. Don't circle back to it four more times this week. That turns your apology into her job, and she's done enough managing of your feelings.

Then comes the part that actually convinces her. The next three games. Have an actual plan. And tell her what it is. Maybe you sit farther from the officials. Maybe gum, hands in pockets, whatever keeps the lid on. Mine is chewing gum like it owes me money, if you're wondering. Nobody's proud in the bleachers all the time.

She doesn't need you perfect out there. She needs three quiet Saturdays in a row. Evidence beats promises every single time. And if she brings it up someday, in the car, out of nowhere, let her. Don't flinch, and don't relitigate the call. Just, "Yeah, I hated how I acted too." Kids revisit things when they're testing whether the repair held. Every calm answer is another screw in the foundation.

One more thing about why this matters more than one bad Saturday. She's going to have referees her whole life. Bad bosses, unfair teachers, calls that don't go her way. Last weekend, you showed her one way to respond to that. This week, you get to show her the other one. The do-over is the actual lesson. Not the blowup. Most of us get one of those moments in the bleachers eventually.

The ones who repair raise kids who repair. That's the whole inheritance. This week, try this. One sentence: I was wrong Saturday, and you deserved better from me. And then no speech after it.

Do you have a question? Email me, hey@heysammy.com.

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About the Hey Sammi Podcast: Questions Sports Parents Actually Ask

Playing time. Quitting mid-season. Difficult coaches. Sideline drama. I answer the real questions you're dealing with every week. Got one of your own? Email me at hey@heysammi.com. Your question might be answered on the show.

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