When You Quit, You Teach More Than You Know

I was sitting with a buddy the other day — just two dads trying to make sense of it all. His daughter plays ball. Mine? I’ve got two in college right now — one heading into her junior year, the other about to be a freshman. One’s on scholarship for basketball, the other’s on scholarship for triple jump and she’ll suit up for hoops too. They didn’t just get there by chance. They grew up in gyms and backseats and hotel hallways. They rode buses and vans for hours on end. They got up early, stayed late, gave up sleepovers and school dances and lazy Saturdays — because they chose to bet on something bigger than themselves. I’ve watched them lose games they thought they should win, get benched when they thought they’d start, and play behind kids who weren’t better than them — but were the coach’s kid. I’ve watched them cry in the car on the ride home — frustrated, questioning it all — and then get up the next day and put in more work. So when my buddy asked, “What’s the harm if they just quit? They’re not going pro, right?” I felt it in my chest — because he doesn’t see what I see.

Quitting doesn’t just stay on the court — it burrows deep in your wiring. Sports psychologists know this. Angela Duckworth calls it grit — passion and perseverance for long-term goals. Carol Dweck’s growth mindset shows kids that talent doesn’t get you half as far as learning how to fail and keep moving forward. Daniel Coyle, in The Talent Code, shows how real improvement comes when you lean into the ugly reps — the ones that frustrate you, stretch you, and force your brain to build new pathways. When you let your kid quit because it’s hard or uncomfortable, you’re not “protecting them” — you’re training their brain to run from discomfort instead of working through it. Quitting speaks volumes about you as a person. Period. And it speaks volumes about you as a parent, too. Because if you’re the parent who just folds every time your kid wants out — well, we’ll save that conversation for another day. But you know exactly what I’m getting at. We’re hard-wiring future generations every time we co-sign quitting. We’re raising young people who don’t know how to stand firm when life presses down. Who don’t know how to sit in the fire long enough to grow. Who don’t know how to look themselves in the mirror and say, “This is on me — but I’m going to fix it.”

A team isn’t about minutes or points — not really. A team is where you learn you’re part of something bigger than you. Where you sacrifice when it doesn’t benefit you. Where you sit the bench and still cheer like crazy for the kid who got your minutes. Where you show up when you’d rather hide. I’ve got a team right now — we’ve won one game this season. One. But you know what? They’re still there. Still sweating. Still running drills and learning to box out. Still believing that the work matters. Because we all know — it’s not a sprint. It’s a foundation. When you or your kid quits midseason because it’s not easy, you teach every other kid on that sideline that commitment is conditional. That team doesn’t mean team — it means me.

Before you pull your kid because they’re not happy, ask the better questions: Are they showing up early? Are they staying late? Are they asking for feedback? Are they pushing themselves and the teammate next to them? Are they taking responsibility for what they can control — or pointing fingers at everyone else? Don’t just ask how they feel — ask what they’re learning.

I want to share a poem that hits this dead on. It’s one I come back to again and again — as a dad, as a coach, and as a man who wants to keep doing the work.

Just Me

By Tom Krause

> From the time I was little, I knew I was great

’cause the people would tell me, “You’ll make it—just wait.”

But they never did tell me how great I would be

if I ever played someone who was greater than me.

When I’m in the back yard, I’m king with the ball.

To swish all those baskets is no sweat at all.

But all of a sudden there’s a man in my face

Who doesn’t seem to realize that I’m king of this place.

So the pressure gets to me; I rush with the ball.

My passes to teammates could go through the wall.

My jumper’s not falling, my dribble’s not sure.

My hand is not steady, my eye is not pure.

The fault is my teammates—they don’t understand.

The fault is my coaches—what a terrible plan.

The fault is the call by the blind referee.

But the fault is not mine; I’m the greatest, you see.

Then finally it hit me when I started to see

that the face in the mirror looked exactly like me.

It wasn’t my teammates who were dropping the ball,

and it wasn’t my coach shooting bricks at the wall.

That face in the mirror that was always so great

had some room for improvement instead of just hate.

So I stopped blaming others and I started to grow.

My play got much better and it started to show.

And all of my teammates didn’t seem quite so bad.

I learned to depend on the good friends I had.

Now I like myself better since I started to see

that I was lousy being great—I’m much better being me.

I’m not trying to raise perfect players. I’m trying to raise good humans. Kids who know how to get knocked down and stand back up. Kids who know how to fight for the person next to them. Kids who know that staying — when it’s messy, when it’s hard, when it’s unfair — is where the real lessons are. Someday, they’ll be somebody’s coworker. Somebody’s teammate. Somebody’s husband or wife. Somebody’s parent. They’ll pass down what they learned on the court, in the gym, on the track — the wiring you put in them right now.

So ask yourself: What are you teaching them to carry? The trophies will fade. The banners will gather dust. But the wiring stays. Stick with it. Look in the mirror. Do the work anyway. Raise kids who know how to stand the test — because they’ve done it before.

💙🏀 Your Turn

What did sports teach you — or your kids — about staying in the fight? Drop your story below. Let’s remind each other why the hard stuff is worth it.