Drew Thomas Humphrey

He paces back and forth behind home plate, oblivious to the spectators seated behind him whose view he obstructs. With singular concentration, he fixes his gaze on the player in the batter’s box, a prepubescent child nervously gripping a $400 bat while awaiting the 3-2 pitch. “Elbow up!” he barks at the boy. “Get those hips out in front and drive this one!” The pitch – like many of the previous pitches in this 10U rec league contest – sails three feet over the catcher’s head. The boy ducks. The catcher turns and scrambles. Ball four. Take your base.

The man behind home plate relaxes momentarily. He turns around and makes eye contact with a random elderly woman behind him – the left fielder’s grandmother, perhaps? “Not surprising,” he says with a shake of the head. “They’re scared to pitch to him. Don’t want to give up the long ball.” The woman smiles, saying nothing. The man leaves to take up a new position on the fence along the first base line, where he promptly recommences his unsolicited instructions from the sidelines, now shifting to the topics of appropriate lead-off distance and base-stealing strategy.

You may be wondering: Who is this man? Where does he come from? How did he get here? And what allows him to roam local sports parks and gymnasiums with such confident swagger?

This, ladies and gentlemen, is an alpha sports dad. By day, he may be a sales rep for a software company, or perhaps the VP of finance for a consulting firm his college buddy started during the pandemic. But by night – or, early evening, depending on this week’s game schedule – he is the unofficial coach, agent, and promoter for the world’s next generational athletic talent.

If you’re lucky enough to meet him, there’s a good chance you’ll feel inferior in his presence. That’s because you are. The alpha sports dad is better than you, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. But don’t give up hope. Even though you’ll never be able to beat the alpha sports dad, with a little bit of guidance, you can become him. And I’m here to help. 

For the past several years, I have studied this rare species in his natural habitat. I have observed his behaviors. I have diagnosed his tactics. And through a rigorous process of scientific research, I am pleased to say that I have uncovered the secrets to his success.

Not everyone can become an alpha sports dad. That’s inherent in the very definition of the terms. But if you think you have what it takes, keep reading. My step-by-step guide is your best chance to get there.

Step 1: Terrify your child by instilling a constant and crippling fear of failure.

It all starts here. Your alpha sports dad status depends on your ability to inflict lifelong psychological damage upon your child after every strikeout, every missed shot, and every dropped pass. Make it known that these mistakes are a personal offense to you as a parent. That your kid would be better off joining the marching band or the art club, for God’s sake. That you’ve spent too much time and money for a lame performance like the one you just witnessed.

The alpha sports dad knows that perfection is the only standard. Some parents tell their kids that playing sports is supposed to be “fun,” and that “trying your best” is all that matters. Don’t listen to them. They’re wrong. And weak. And their kids will spend the rest of their athletic careers losing to yours.

Step 2: Treat every play as if it alone will determine the fate of the human race.

To the outside world, it might look like an insignificant free throw during the first half of a random YMCA youth basketball game played by second graders who are only there because their parents signed them up in the hopes that it would pull them away from Minecraft for a few hours each week. But to you, it must be nothing less than the sole factor determining your child’s future – and your own.

The alpha sports dad never takes a play off. Nor does he moderate his reactions to anything his child does on the court or the field. You must adopt these habits yourself. If your kid makes a good play, celebrate excessively: pump your first threateningly toward the other team, make aggressive dog-barking noises, kick the nearest trash can while yelling, “All ****ing day, baby! All ****ing day!” And if your kid makes a bad play, well, that shouldn’t happen. If it does, refer back to Step 1.

Step 3: Flex on other parents with stories of your own past athletic accomplishments.

Who cares if you haven’t played a real sport in two decades, or if you’re so out of shape that you can’t walk up a flight of stairs without gasping for air. None of that matters if you know how to live in the past. When chatting with fellow parents before the game or after practice, be sure to hijack the conversation so that it inevitably ends with an impressive tale of how good you were back in the day. Not only will it make the other parents fear your long-lost athleticism, but it will also give them an increased admiration for the genetic advantages of your offspring.

For me personally, this looks like casually mentioning how I was in the starting five on a JV basketball team that went 16-4 and finished undefeated against our conference opponents during the 2001-02 season. Other parents can’t compete with that. And it will give them all the explanation they need as to why my children are such prodigies who are almost certainly destined for multiple Division I scholarship offers by the end of their sophomore year.

Step 4: Root against every other kid, even if they’re on the same team as your own.

Sportsmanship is overrated. Team chemistry is a myth. True champions know that there are only so many spots on the team, only so many spots in the starting line-up, only so many spots on the awards stage at the end of the season. If you want to make it, you have to see everyone else as a competitor and an enemy. You must crush them.

As a parent, it’s imperative that when another kid on the team hits a double, you suggest loudly that your kid would have turned it into a triple. Or when another kid scores a goal, you must remind everyone about the last game when your kid scored two. Simply put, never celebrate the success of someone who might someday take your child’s spot or overshadow your kids’ greatness. You might as well be selling nuclear secrets to North Korea. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there; if your kid isn’t eating, he’s being eaten. And there’s nothing alpha about that.

Step 5: Blame every bad result on the coach, on the officials, or on that damn McDaniels kid whose parents refuse to fork out the money for private lessons like you do.

A true alpha sports dad doesn’t have the words “we lost” in his vocabulary. Sure, there will be games that are “stolen” or “rigged” or “blown because they didn’t pass my kid the ball for the final shot.” But true defeat? That’s something you’re never permitted to acknowledge.

This step is vital for reinforcing your own personal delusions of superiority over others. After all, if you can’t depend on your kid’s success as a means of validating your own worth as a human being, then what are you left with? What will fill the gaping existential hole inside of you if not another 89-cent plastic trophy collecting dust on the shelf in Junior’s bedroom? You must become an expert at manufacturing excuses, for these alone will sustain you in your darkest moments.

Being an alpha sports dad is no easy task. Many try, few succeed. But by following these steps, it won’t be long before you’re strutting into a meaningless youth sports game and asserting your dominance over all the hapless parents whose children lack the promise and prowess of your own.

You’re welcome. I’ll see you on TV when your kid hits it big.

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