Chapter Title: Beyond the Pins: Coaching Without Coaching, Loving Without Letting Go

Chapter Title: Beyond the Pins: Coaching Without Coaching, Loving Without Letting Go

I used to be Bella’s coach.

At least that’s what the paperwork said.

But then one day, she looked up at me—not with anger, not with fear—just with clarity, and said, “Dad… I just want you to be my dad.”

That was the moment the jersey came off.

At first, I didn’t know what to do with my hands—figuratively and literally. I wasn’t calling shots anymore, wasn’t breaking down mechanics, wasn’t standing behind her lane-side with game plans and warm-up strategies.

But I was still her father.

And if I really wanted her to thrive, I had to learn to coach her without coaching her.

So I did.

I watched her face major losses—like missing a four-pin at a PWBA regional that could’ve made her the youngest winner ever. She handled it with grace.

I watched her fall in the finals, not once, not twice, but three different times when the national spotlight was on her. I used to ache for her—used to think those were my dreams, too. But I learned to let go of the outcome and just be present.

And then came the smaller moments.

The ones no one posts about.

Like when she started learning to drive.

That’s when I stopped being a coach and truly became a father.

I didn’t bark orders or give lectures.

I pointed out what mattered.

I reminded her to look left and right.

To stay aware of others, because not everyone on the road is paying attention.

It was never about control. It was about awareness.

Not just behind the wheel, but in life.

All my years of coaching, all my championship strategies, all my mindset hacks and performance systems—they meant nothing if I didn’t first show her what love looks like in motion.

I brought in a belief: that how you do anything is how you do everything.

And that the best coaching is done in the quiet.

Bella and I share a phrase—B.F.S.

Body language. Focus. Self-talk.

It’s our foundation, even now.

Shoulders back. Eyes clear. Inner dialogue strong.

I’ll whisper it before a tournament.

She’ll nod. Sometimes she doesn’t even respond out loud.

But I know she hears it.

I hear it in how she processes disappointment now.

She doesn’t crumble anymore.

She reflects. She rebounds.

She walks with purpose, even when the pins fall unfair.

I hear it in her conversations with friends.

I see it when she’s still gentle, still joyful, even after the hard games.

Bella may not want a coach.

But she has something deeper.

She has a father who’s learned how to step back so she can step forward.

She’s growing into a woman who understands what real greatness looks like.

Not just trophies or titles—but reverence, gratitude, integrity.

She’s learning how to drive through life with full awareness—on the road, on the lanes, and through the storms.

And I’m right there with her.

Not in the driver’s seat.

Not even giving directions.

Just being present.

Just being Dad.

That’s the legacy I want to leave.

And maybe that’s the highest coaching there is