We raised our kids in gyms, on ballfields, in vans, at tournaments, and around teams.
That probably sounds normal if you were a coaching family. But looking back now, I realize those environments taught our kids things that are getting harder and harder to teach in today’s world.
They learned how to lose.
They learned how to sit the bench.
They learned how to be criticized.
They learned how to deal with pressure.
They learned that disappointment was not an emergency.
And maybe most importantly, they learned that Mom and Dad were not always going to step in and make life easier.
That is not exactly the direction society is moving right now.
We Are Living in a Bubble-Wrapped Culture
Not because parents don’t love their kids. Most parents love their kids deeply. That’s actually part of the problem. We love them so much that we sometimes remove the very things that would help them grow.
We soften every edge.
We explain away every consequence.
We rescue them from every uncomfortable moment.
Then we act surprised when they struggle with pressure, criticism, failure, and accountability later in life.
I don’t say that as someone who got it all right. I say it as a parent, coach, and teacher who has spent a lifetime watching kids grow stronger when adults allowed them to wrestle with hard things.
Three Kids, Three Different Ways to Handle Adversity
Our three kids all handled adversity differently, just like players on a team. Each one had their own role, personality, and way of competing.
Eric, our oldest, was the sensitive one. He traveled with us constantly when he was young, sitting on benches and tagging along on road trips long before he ever played a varsity minute. He watched older players — sometimes six or seven years ahead of him — succeed, fail, pout, compete, and grow.
He learned by being around it.
Eric even had a strange little goal as an athlete. He wanted the opposing crowd to yell, “Daddy’s boy.”
Most kids would have hated that.
Eric wanted it.
To him, that meant he was doing something right. If the crowd was yelling at him, it meant he was making an impact. He learned early how to block out noise, handle criticism, and keep playing.
Reagan — Reggie — was a different cookie altogether.
She was tough, physical, and never backed down from much of anything. She wanted the ball in her hands when the game was on the line. If she heard whispers like, “You’re not as good as your brother,” she didn’t fall apart.
She stored it.
Then she used it.
Reggie didn’t just want to be compared. She wanted to stand out. And she did. She wasn’t afraid of contact, criticism, or big moments. Some of that was natural, but a lot of it came from being in competitive environments where nobody stopped the game just because things got hard.
Then there was Morgan, our youngest.
Morgan may have been the most naturally talented athlete of the three, and without question, she became the best golfer in the family. But golf is a different beast.
It’s quiet.
It’s individual.
It’s mental.
And when things go badly, there is nowhere to hide.
In basketball or baseball, you can blend into the rhythm of the team. In golf, your score is your score. Your mistakes are sitting right there on the card. A bad hole follows you to the next tee box if you let it.
We had more than a few moments on the course where Morgan had to fight back tears. You always hear, “There’s no crying in baseball.” Well, there’s no crying in golf either, but that is a pretty tall order for a high school kid trying to survive missed putts, bad lies, and windy back nines.
Morgan grew tough in a different way.
She learned self-discipline.
She learned emotional control.
She learned how to keep going when it was just her, the course, and her own thoughts.
None of our kids always got it right. No kid does. But they learned from their faults, their struggles, and their hard lessons. Like athletes who want to improve, they learned to turn difficult moments into tools they could carry forward in life.
The Move That Broke an Eight-Year-Old’s Heart
One of our biggest parenting “aha” moments came from Eric.
Around the turn of the century, our family made a big move from Burley, Idaho, to Twin Falls. I had spent 11 years coaching basketball and baseball in Burley, and it had become home. But Twin Falls was a bigger school, my alma mater, and a great opportunity.
Eric was only eight years old, and he took it hard.
He had his friends.
He had his routines.
He was a Burley Bobcat through and through.
He cried when we left, and that broke our hearts a little. But we knew we were doing what we believed was right for the long haul.
He also could not understand why I would leave Burley to coach at Twin Falls when we had beaten Twin by double figures both times that year. In his eight-year-old mind, that was all the evidence he needed.
The Promise I Made in Right Field
That summer, we got him involved in all-star baseball. My good friend Rob Ellis, who I had played high school and college baseball with, was coaching a team in Twin Falls. Rob knew the game, was great with kids, and even moved Eric and his best friend up to play with the older group.
Before the season started, my wife Tammi had one major concern.
She was worried I would be too hard on Eric.
Baseball was my game back then, even more than basketball, and she knew I could be intense. She was afraid I would expect too much from him or put too much pressure on him.
So I made a promise.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll back off. I’ll let Rob coach. I’ll sit out in right field with the parents and keep my mouth shut.”
And I did.
Mostly.
The Fifth Inning
Fast-forward to the state championship game.
We were playing a team from Meridian, and we had not beaten them all year. Eric started on the mound. He pitched the first three or four innings, and we were up 3–1. He was throwing well. Everything looked great.
Then the fifth inning came.
Suddenly, Eric wasn’t pitching.
I was confused, but I stayed out of it. I had made my promise. I was just Dad in right field, biting my tongue hard enough to qualify as a medical event.
We went on to lose the game.
Afterward, Rob walked out of the dugout. I nodded and thanked him for the summer.
Then he stopped and said, “I don’t know what it was, but your son pulled himself out of the game.”
I blinked.
“Wait. What? He pulled himself out?”
“Yeah,” Rob said. “Told me his arm was sore.”
So I let it go.
For the moment.
The Drive Home
We got in the car and started the long drive home. It was quiet. I was stewing. Tammi hadn’t said a word. The girls were in the backseat.
Then Eric finally spoke up.
“Can we stop at McDonald’s?”
And that’s when it happened.
Tammi, the same mom who had been worried I would be too hard on our kids, whipped around in her seat and poked him in the chest.
And let’s be clear.
She wasn’t “raising her voice.”
She was delivering the gospel.
She lit into him.
“We spent all that money! You had a chance to pitch your team into the regionals! And you pulled yourself out of a state championship game?”
She made it very clear that we were not stopping for food.
For the next two and a half hours, nobody said a word.
Well, except Reggie.
She was mad too, but not for the reason you might think.
She was furious at Eric because she wanted McDonald’s, and now we were going home to eat bologna sandwiches.
That was the final straw for her.
Was That Too Hard on Him?
Some people might hear that story today and think we were.
I don’t.
I think it was one of those moments where a kid learned that quitting, avoiding discomfort, or stepping away from responsibility affects more than just you.
It affects your team.
It affects your family.
And sometimes, worst of all, it affects your sister’s chance at McDonald’s.
That moment did not ruin Eric.
It helped shape him.
He learned that being part of something means people are counting on you. He learned that discomfort does not automatically mean escape. He learned that if you commit to something, there are times when you have to push through more than you feel like pushing through.
That does not mean kids should play through real injuries. That does not mean adults should ignore pain, fear, or emotional struggle. There is a difference between toughness and stupidity, and good adults need to know the difference.
But there is also a difference between protecting kids and preventing growth.
That is the line we have to start talking about again.
Because Life Will Not Explain Itself Gently
The more we bubble-wrap kids, the less prepared they become for real life.
Bosses will not always give second chances.
College professors will not always care about excuses.
Teammates will not always tolerate selfishness.
Marriage, parenting, careers, and leadership all require people to do hard things when they do not feel like doing them.
That starts early.
- It starts when a kid loses a game and no one blames the official.
- It starts when a kid sits the bench and no one emails the coach at midnight.
- It starts when a kid gets corrected and no one calls it trauma.
- It starts when a kid fails and the adults around them say, “Good. Now what did you learn?”
That is not harsh.
That is preparation.
What I’m Actually Grateful For
Our kids were not raised perfectly. No kids are. We made mistakes. We probably pushed too hard sometimes and not hard enough at others. Every parent does.
But I am grateful our kids had moments where they had to struggle, adjust, compete, recover, and figure things out.
Kids do not become resilient by being told they are resilient. They become resilient by surviving moments that require resilience.
And sometimes, those moments begin with a lost championship game, a sore arm, a quiet car ride, and no McDonald’s.
Throughout June, I’ll be writing about parenting, culture, accountability, and the environments that shape future leaders long before adulthood arrives — along with some of the funniest, craziest, and most unbelievable stories from 35 years in classrooms, locker rooms, dugouts, and parent meetings.
This story first appeared on Matt’s Substack. Read the original post — “No McDonald’s After the Championship Game” — and subscribe to the newsletter for short stories and practical lessons like this one every week.
