Who Does Your Son Want To Be?
I want to share with you how changing the way I talked to my boys helped them cultivate mental toughness.
A Championship Lost
I stood in the dugout and watched helplessly as my first baseman reared back to throw. I could hear the other coaches shout, "Step on the bag!" With one out and runners on first and second, the smart play was to record the out and let the runners advance. We had a two-run lead. We were two outs away from a championship. But our kid, a big sixth grader nicknamed "Sarge," wanted to get the lead runner. He was going to try and gun down the kid streaking from second to third. Sarge stepped and fired. The ball sailed over the third baseman's head. Was it a high throw, or had the kid ducked? I'll never know. What I knew for sure, however, was that was not the play. Stepping on first—that was the play. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Everyone held their breath until that ball hit the fence and ricocheted into left field. That was when the crowd erupted, cheering for the other team.
The runner on second scored easily, and as the tying run rounded third, my left fielder scooped up the ball and threw home, replicating the overthrow at third. That was when I knew the game was over. That was when I knew we had lost. The catcher leapt as high as he could, but he needed to be an NBA player to reach that throw. By the time he tracked down the ball at the backstop, the batter—the one who hit the ball to first—crossed home plate, ending the game and our season. They scored three runs on a ground ball to first.
Our players started to cry as the other team dog piled at home plate. I didn't look at Sarge, and he didn't look at me. I felt betrayed. Why had he done that? Why the bad throw? I didn't get it. Our players had the skill and the heart, but when it mattered most, they pressed. They cracked. And as their coach, I knew that was somehow my fault, but why and how? What could I do about it?
The Summer of Insight
I spent the summer studying the mental game of baseball. Everything I read boiled down to one thing: I focused too much on outcomes. After the championship game, I wanted to ask Sarge, "Why did you throw to third?" (I'm glad I didn't.) Before that summer, I didn't think there was anything wrong with that question. However, I learned that is a terrible question. Why? Because it blames him for the result. That summer, I learned a better way, and it changed everything.
When we returned from summer break to play fall ball, I took full responsibility for the end-of-season loss. While they were prepared physically, I had not prepared them mentally. I told them we would become process-focused. I don't think they understood what I meant until they saw it in action during our first fall game.
Not Again...
In this game, the batter hit a sharp ground ball to our second baseman, a scrawny little kid nicknamed Bandit. Instead of charging the ball, Bandit backpedaled. The ball did what baseballs have been doing for a hundred years to players who back up: it ate him up. It took a wicked hop, jumped over his glove, and bounced into right field. An easy out turned into a runner at first.
A Better Approach
When we finally got out of the inning, I met Bandit as he entered the dugout. He tensed up. I put my arm around him and said in a slow, calm voice, "Tell me about that play. What was going on for you?" He paused for a moment, looked up at me, then thought about it. "The ball had this crazy spin, so I backed up." I nodded and asked, "How'd that work out?" He shrugged, answering in a sheepish tone, "Not too good, Coach." I smiled. "I bet. What would you do differently next time?" He looked determined. "Charge it." I asked, "Do you want to work on that in the next practice?" All the tension left his body. "Yeah," he said. "Great, now go out there and smash the ball. You're on deck."
That might not sound like much, but at the time, it was huge because both of us felt the pressure to perform let up. We moved from talking about mistakes to talking about process. Sometimes a player did charge the ball, and it ate him up anyway. That was fine. But I focused my attention on their effort, their approach, and their intention. As a result, one play at a time, one conversation at a time, one game at a time, the boys and the coaches developed more resilience. When we found ourselves in a tournament championship later that fall, our kids played relaxed and focused. In fact, they were so calm they caused the other team to panic. No matter what happened, no matter how big a lead the other guys built, we just kept coming back. With two outs in the bottom of the last inning and the tying run on third, the other coach panicked and told his player to steal home. Our players never blinked. Our third baseman yelled, "Steal!" and our catcher stepped up the line while our pitcher passed him the baseball like he was leading a receiver in a football play. Mind you, we had never practiced that play. Hollywood caught the ball from Rocket and, in one smooth motion, tagged the runner out six feet in front of the plate. This time we dog piled at home plate.
The win felt great, but the sense of pride I felt in seeing our boys play with confidence felt even better.
Process Focus for Gamers
I wondered: Being process-focused worked in sports, but could it work with video games? In baseball, I could see the play develop as it was happening. I could watch the player. As a parent of a gamer, however, usually all I could see was the aftermath. My gamer would explode in rage. Once my son rage-spiked his controller, breaking it. That was an expensive mistake. How could I use a process focus to handle that? My instinct was this was similar to the sports problem—a loss of composure. But how to handle it?
The first thing I realized is that before I could have a "process conversation," I needed to help my boys get calm. I never found a good way to have a conversation with a kid who was being flooded with negative emotions. So I sent them into the backyard to "run it off." We never treated it as a punishment but rather a gateway for self-control. I would say, "Run a few laps until we can talk." Sometimes they ran. Sometimes they shot hoops. Physical activity calmed them down.
When they would come back in, I'd ask them, "You good to talk?" If they weren't, I asked, "What else do you need?" Sometimes they needed me to shoot hoops with them. But when they were ready, that was when I reached for the process framework. I started the same way I started with Bandit. I wanted them to tell me about it. I wanted to see what they saw and feel what they felt. I learned from them that video games had a dose of "double shame." They felt shamed for losing the video game and doubly shamed for losing their self-control.
I asked my boys how I could help them avoid getting so upset in the game. We talked about early warning signs they could use when they got too wrapped up in a match. They wanted to be able to turn the game off themselves when overheated. Did it work every time? Of course not. Nothing does. However, giving them the chance to bring their behavior in line with their self-image developed their sense of agency and improved their self-control. I wanted my boys to see themselves as people who do hard things. My intention as a coach and a father is to help kids build an identity based upon effort, not outcome. I told my kids, "You win or you learn."[1] There is no lose.
The Tool
Here is how I think about being process-focused:[2]
Step 1: Help them find self-control. Key question: "Are you calm enough to talk?" You might need to make it clear there will be no more gaming until after there is a conversation.
Step 2: Find their perspective. Key question: "Tell me about it" or "What was going on for you?" Withhold judgment and seek to make them feel understood.
Step 3: Find a solution going forward. Key question: "What do you need so this doesn't happen again?" Problem-solve together.
I believe every boy has a secret aspirational image of themselves. Using a process focus helps them reach that version. Give it a try.
