"Dad, it really made us all feel bad," said my ninth-grade daughter after she had climbed in the car following a recent game. She went on to tell how she and the girls on her team weren't sure what to do for the other team's star player. "She was crying, Dad, kind of doubled over sometimes, like she was too tired to keep going, but her coach kept yelling …."

Ah, the coach. How could you miss him? He was yelling from the moment the game began. He was barking commands and issuing demands with a harsh, guttural, barking tone. And with that method he got his results: The girl, through tears that none of us on the sidelines could see, and in pain that we did not recognize, had been skillfully weaving her way through all our defenders, and had scored all the goals for our opposing team. She, in fact, was the key reason for our defeat at the end of the day. Still, despite these successes, the coach kept yelling, and his criticisms for her imperfections echoed across the field.

"But the worst of it," my daughter went on to say, "is that the coach was her dad."