Are You Coaching to Win or Coaching to Be Liked?

There’s a moment in every season. You’ll feel it. You’re standing on the sideline, watching a kid jog back on defense after turning it over for the third time in four possessions. He looks at you. Not out of fear. Not out of shame. He’s checking your face. Seeing how mad you are. Wondering how much leash he’s still got.

You know what he needs. A timeout. A hard talk. Maybe a seat on the bench for a few minutes. But you don’t move. Not yet.

Because there’s a voice in your head that says if you pull him now, you’ll lose him.

Or maybe his parents are in the stands tonight. Maybe it’s the AD sitting behind the scorer’s table. Maybe you’ve already had too many of these “moments” this season and you’re sick of the emails.

So you let it slide. Again.

You think you’re managing the moment. What you’re really doing is bending.

And here’s the hard truth. It doesn’t start with some big decision. It starts like this. Quiet. Small. You convince yourself it’s leadership when it’s really fear wearing a whistle.

Because deep down, you’re not coaching to win.

You’re coaching to be liked.

You’re managing faces, moods, optics. You’re adjusting your volume so no one gets uncomfortable. You’re calculating every timeout, every substitution, every postgame talk through the filter of how it’s going to be received instead of how it needs to be delivered.

You stop saying what needs to be said. You sugarcoat mistakes. You start calling it “development” when what it really is... is avoidance.

And the kids? They feel it. They always do.

They don’t say it out loud. But they start looking through you instead of at you. They stop playing hard in the small moments because they know you won’t hold them to it. Respect drains slow — not all at once. And by the time you realize it, they’re not listening anymore.

They like you. But they don’t follow you.

And that’s worse.

The job used to be clear. Teach the game. Build the culture. Hold the line. Now it feels like you’re walking a tightrope. One wrong look and you’re the villain. One honest sentence and someone’s typing up a complaint.

So you compromise. Just a little. And then again. And again.

Until the version of yourself that first took this job — the one who believed in hard truths and earned trust — starts feeling further and further away.

Being liked is tempting. It feels good. Until it doesn’t. Until you wake up and realize you’re not coaching a team anymore. You’re hosting a performance.

The best players you ever coached? They didn’t need you to like them. They needed you to see them. Challenge them. Demand more from them than they thought they had.

The best seasons you ever had? They weren’t drama-free. They were built on conflict, on accountability, on showing up even when it got uncomfortable.

You’re not here to be everyone’s favorite. You’re here to build something that matters.

And no, it won’t always get you applause. Some parents won’t get it. Some kids won’t either. You’ll be misunderstood. Misquoted. Maybe even benched yourself.

But one day, a kid you coached will be out in the real world. They’ll face something hard. And they’ll remember the coach who didn’t coddle them, didn’t chase their approval, didn’t flinch when things got real.

They’ll remember you showed up, told the truth, and stood your ground.

And that? That lasts longer than a win. Longer than a like.

So be respected. Be real. Let the rest take care of itself.

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Earn Your Minutes: The War Against Entitlement in Youth Basketball

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Gone Before the Final Buzzer: Why So Many Kids Love the Game but Quit Anyway