When Quitting is a Loss to Everyone

“But your child quit the team! We didn’t cut them. We didn’t ask them to leave. We didn’t treat them badly. They quit. That’s not on us.”

That’s the line you hear all the time.

But is it really that simple?

If you’ve coached for more than five minutes, you’ve had that kid. The talented one who’s always a step behind. The one who struggles with confidence. Or commitment. Or showing up on time. The one who disappears for a week and then walks back in like nothing happened. And sometimes, the one who quits on impulse.

So when that happens, is it really not our fault?

Kids quit for all kinds of reasons. Most of the time, it’s not the reason they say out loud. Before you let them walk away, you owe it to them—and yourself—to understand the whole story. Quitting isn’t just an exit. It’s often a crossroads. And that’s a teaching moment.

My first year as a head baseball coach, I had a two-sport athlete. I’d only known him for about two weeks. Basketball was his first love. Baseball? He was good, not great. But he had something you can’t coach—he lifted the room. His teammates were better when he was around.

The problem was school. He was on the brink of failing. If he didn’t pass that semester, he wouldn’t play basketball the next year.

He came to me thinking he might have to quit baseball.

I told him no. Not because baseball mattered more—but because he mattered more. We built an academic plan instead.

Here’s the part that raised eyebrows: I told him not to come to practice.

Yes, I know. Practice makes perfect. But we weren’t trying to build the perfect baseball player. We were trying to help build a responsible young man.

During practice, he went to the library. He came to home games 30 minutes before first pitch. He stayed back from weekday road trips. We adjusted everything we could to give him time to fix what really needed fixing.

He was relieved—but worried. “What will the team think?”

I told him that part was on me.

I gathered the team and explained that one of our own needed help. He’d miss practices. He’d miss some games. But he still belonged. If we were serious about building a culture, then we had to act like a family.

They didn’t blink. They agreed.

He passed his classes. He played both sports through graduation. Today he’s a successful businessman, a father, a leader in his community. I like to think that choosing not to let him quit made a small difference in that story.

Early in my career, when I was an assistant football coach at a Division III school, we had a transfer who tested every ounce of our patience. He was gifted. Really gifted. But he didn’t know how to be a college athlete. Late to meetings. Missed practices. More than once I was told to have the managers clean out his locker.

He was done.

Except he never really was.

He kept coming back. Took every punishment. Listened. Tried again. Failed again. Tried again.

A lot of staffs would have closed the door. Our head coach didn’t.

Over time, something clicked. His attitude changed. His work ethic followed. He became an All-American. Played six years in the NFL. Today he’s one of the most respected college football coaches I know.

I still wonder: what if we had stuck with the easy decision and kept that locker cleaned out?

Because that’s the thing. The easy path is letting them leave. The harder one is staying in it with them—teaching, mentoring, holding them accountable, and not giving up.

As a head baseball coach later on, I had a mid-year transfer from a Big Ten school. Huge talent. Not much conditioning. Not much drive—at least not yet.

We had a brutal three-week conditioning period called “Stations.” Forty-five stations. One minute each. By the end, everyone was wrecked. It was designed that way. If you survived Stations, you belonged.

Second night in, about four stations deep, he bolted. Ran straight out the back door of the field house. Left his glove. Left his bag. Vanished into the winter air.

The captains brought his gear to my office. I figured that was it.

The next day he showed up, looking embarrassed. “Coach, I want to quit. I’m not in shape. I can’t do this.”

The easy answer? “Thanks for trying. Good luck.”

Instead, I looked at him and said, “No.”

“You can’t quit. You made a commitment when you transferred here. You made a commitment to your teammates. You’ll take your gear. You’ll come back tonight. You’ll compete as hard as you can. And we’re not talking about this again.”

I’m not sure why I responded that strongly. Maybe I just had a gut feeling that if he walked out again, it wouldn’t just be baseball he walked away from.

He picked up his gear.

He came back.

He got in shape. He found confidence. He became an important part of our team that year. Our deal was simple: finish the season, then decide. He eventually left the program—but not as a quitter. He left as a committed student.

Today he’s a vice president at a major transportation company. We still talk.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t always get it right. I made plenty of lineup mistakes. Probably more wrong calls than right ones. I kept more players than I needed because I believed most kids, given time, will surprise you.

As a baseball coach, I tried to put the nine best for that day on the field—not necessarily the “best nine” on paper.

Sometimes quitting is the right decision. Not every situation should be forced. But if you’ve built your program the right way—if kids chose you for the right reasons—then your job isn’t just to manage a roster.

It’s to teach life.

Freshmen are happy to be there. Sophomores want to play. Juniors want to start. Seniors want recognition. All of them want to matter.

Our job is to help them understand the value they bring—and the value they receive.

The ends don’t justify the means. Winning matters. But how you build the win matters more.

The easy path shows up every day in coaching.

Great coaches just choose the harder one a little more often.