PART 1: Fear Didn’t Go Away — It Just Shouldn't Stop You!

I’ve seen amazing coaches. Guys who can teach. Motivate. Hold kids accountable. People who genuinely want the best for them.

But being there for kids isn’t the same thing as being present.

You can show up to every practice, drag the cage out, throw BP, and still not really see them. I see it all the time—coaches half-listening, half-scrolling, half-thinking about the 700 other things waiting for them when the game’s over. And I get it. We’re all human. We’re tired, we’ve got jobs, we’ve got our own kids. But the game doesn’t care how tired we are, and neither do the kids waiting for us to notice them.

Being there means you remember.

It means when a kid strikes out, you don’t just remember the whiff—you remember the adjustment he made the pitch before. It means when a parent asks why their kid isn’t playing shortstop, you don’t guess. You can show them. You can explain it, calmly, honestly, from a place of data and care.

That’s the difference between intention and presence.

The Plumber Problem

Most youth coaches are like incredible plumbers who never learned QuickBooks. They can fix the leak, but they forget to send the invoice. They know the craft, but not the system.

Coaching’s the same way. You can know drills, grips, and cues, but if you don’t know how to run a team—how to track, document, and communicate—your good intentions still end in frustration.

For years, I thought maybe my family was the problem. My son would get mixed messages about playing time or position, and I’d assume we were reading too much into things. Then, one day, it clicked.

The Florida Moment

It was our first big tournament—the All-American Games at the Space Coast Complex in Florida. My son was ten, nervous, and surrounded by kids from all over the country.

He struggled early. Didn’t show what he could do. Honestly, that was on him. The coach couldn’t have known yet that he was one of the better pitchers on the roster. There hadn’t been time, and there weren’t notes or calls ahead of time—no baseline to start from.

Between games, I sat talking with another parent under the Florida sun. Their kid had been through a program where the coach had reached out beforehand—asked questions, gathered info, came prepared. That coach had a starting point. This one didn’t.

And as we talked, I realized: this wasn’t an Amarillo thing, or a Texas thing. This was everywhere. Every city, every team, every age group. Good people trying hard, operating blind.

That’s when the phrase that guides me now started forming in my head:

“Fill the void with information, not someone’s previous experience.”

Because when there’s no information, people fill the silence with stories. Parents assume the worst. Coaches default to memory. Kids think they’re failing. Everyone walks away frustrated when, in reality, they just didn’t have the same facts.

The Coach Who Freed Them

Then something unexpected happened. The same coach who hadn’t prepped or tracked anything gave one of the best speeches I’ve ever heard.

He looked at those boys and said,

“You may never see these players again. You may never see these umpires again. Have fun. Lay it all on the line.”

Simple. Raw. Honest.

And my son—who had been tight all weekend—just let go.

He played the best outfield of his life. Twice threw runners out at first base from right field. Smiled the whole time. It wasn’t that fear disappeared; it just didn’t stop him anymore.

That moment changed everything for both of us. For him, it was the beginning of learning how to compete free. For me, it was the beginning of learning how to coach (and be a parent on the sidelines) free—to let go of control while still paying attention.

I drove back from Florida realizing coaching isn’t about being perfect; it’s about being aware. It’s about balancing humility with preparation, emotion with information.

Notes Are Love Letters

It started by helping one of Crewe's coaches in the background, I started taking notes—real notes. Simply talking to coaches after the game, then sending it back to them organized, so they could see their own thoughts clearly, and when they needed them.

Not just “played well” or “missed two grounders.” I mean the kind of notes that remind them who these kids are. Communication back and forth, learning how to be better for the team, for the kids, it was a learning process.

Because eyewitness testimony? Total garbage. (Don't believe me, its not hard to find the data). We’ve known that for decades. Memory lies. It fills gaps, rearranges order, softens blame. If you rely on it, you’re not coaching—you’re storytelling.

Every week, I talk with our coaching staff—sometimes right after a game, sometimes late at night. We trade notes, GameChanger clips, and texts. We check each other’s perceptions. Sometimes we realize a kid who felt like he struggled actually had better contact rates than anyone else. Sometimes we find a problem we missed completely.

That’s how you stay present. That’s how you build trust.

Anxiety and Awareness

Being a coach means carrying a low hum of anxiety all the time. You want to do right by every kid, every parent, every pitch. You wake up wondering if you forgot something, if you missed a chance to teach.

Notes help quiet that noise. They remind you that you are paying attention. They give you receipts for your care. They allow you to put that anxiety into something, to check later, it quiets the noise.

But the bigger lesson from Florida was this:Helping kids grow isn’t just about mechanics. It’s about emotion. About teaching them how to face fear without folding. About giving them the tools to keep moving even when their brain screams “stop.”

That’s not just a baseball lesson—it’s a life one.

Ending Part 1: The Turn

After that tournament, I stopped looking at coaching in the youth level as a total package approach. Skills are important, but its about understanding mindset, growth and accountability across the board that develops players as kids not just athletes.

My son learned not to let fear freeze him. I learned to slow down, listen, and teach—kids, parents, and other coaches alike. Gently. Without ego. Understanding that everyone has their own approach and that growth doesn’t come from yelling—it comes from remembering.

And that’s where Part 2 begins:How to take those lessons—presence, memory, empathy—and turn them into systems that make you a better coach, leader, and parent.

Because being there for kids isn’t magic. It’s method.