Beneath the Bravado: What Our Boys Are Really Carrying

Over the years, I’ve coached a countless number of  boys and young men. Some arrive joyful and eager. Others, quiet or unsure. But every so often, a different pattern emerges, one I’ve come to recognize all too well.

Seems like so long ago. Nothing but joy and innocence.

A kid with undeniable talent. Strong. Fast. Electric on the field. An uncanny feel for the game, its rhythms, its tactics, its timing. But also: bravado. Guarded. Defiant. Sometimes smugness. Often uncoachable.

And too often, shielded from accountability because of what he can do with the ball.

I used to chalk it up to ego. Lately, I find myself wondering what he’s carrying. What makes him act this way?

I’ve seen it too many times: talent masking pain. Performative behavior covering wounds that don’t necessarily come from the game. Not attitude, but armor.

The behavior doesn’t usually show up all at once. It builds slowly, almost imperceptibly, as boys head into adolescence. A little more pushback. A shorter fuse. Subtle signs of entitlement or control creeps in where there used to be curiosity and joy.

And if we’re not paying close attention, as parents, teachers, or coaches, we miss the window to step in. To ask what’s really going on. To challenge the behavior with care before it hardens into identity.

Because those early moments matter. When we overlook them, especially in kids with talent, we unintentionally reinforce the idea that performance excuses behavior. That skill is more important than character. And over time, that message sticks.

As coaches, we often get a peek beneath the surface. It could be a benign interaction with a parent, or a sudden outburst at training. Seemingly innocuous, but enough to make you pause. Other times, it’s just a gut feeling, that there’s something heavier going on than what we see on the field.

And when you start to look closer, you realize that not all wounds are visible.

I’ve learned over the years that if we truly want to help the players, students, or kids around us, we have to be willing to dig deeper. Where do those silent wounds come from? Sadly, the answer often lies behind closed doors, what’s happening at home.

Some kids aren’t acting out because they crave attention. They’re acting out because it’s the only way they’ve ever received it. Validation comes through performance. Bravado becomes a shield. Cockiness becomes a language of survival. And when they’ve learned that love is tied to outcomes, it’s no surprise they double down on anything that earns them a reaction.

Here’s the harsh reality: when kids grow up in a world where love is conditional, where approval can be taken away as quickly as it’s given, they’re forced to adapt. Some retreat. Others act out. Most become someone the world can’t hurt first.

In the blink of an eye, they're almost grown men.

That’s what the compassionate side of me sees, kids trying to survive in a world where love feels earned, not given.

This morning, I came across an article by Eamon McCrory on PsyPost. In it, McCrory explains that repeated verbal abuse doesn’t just hurt feelings, it rewires the brain. Brain scans of children exposed to chronic verbal abuse show a hyperactive threat response and a dulled reward system, laying the groundwork for a lifetime of anxiety, depression, aggression, and an inability to regulate their emotions.

Reading it felt like shining a light on something that’s long been hidden. The science confirms what I’ve seen in so many boys I’ve coached over the years. Honestly, it echoes what I’ve lived myself. When love is unpredictable or conditional, when words are weaponized, kids don’t just get tough. They adapt. They retreat. They guard. They perform. They “armor up,” often in ways that coaches, friends, or even parents miss until it’s too late.

This is where it gets complicated. Where compassion and accountability crash head on into each other. Because I do have compassion for these boys. I can see and feel the pain behind their performance. But that doesn’t mean their behaviors are acceptable. Or that the damage they cause to those around them should be ignored.

And this is where I think so many of us, especially men, miss the mark. We confuse toughness with emotional suppression. We reward bravado and domination, while ignoring kindness, vulnerability, and reflection. We tell boys to be strong, but we rarely show them what that actually looks like.

And in today’s world, where Joe Rogan, Andrew Tate, and algorithm driven feeds serve up a version of masculinity that’s loud, aggressive, and often misogynistic, it’s no wonder so many confuse swagger for self-worth.

But real strength isn’t in the performance. It’s in sitting with discomfort.Taking accountability. Having the courage to grow and change.

So what can we do?

I'll ever forget this day. Rocco's first soccer camp. I know he has learned so many valuable lessons along the way and appreciate all of the coaches and mentors who've shaped him into the man he is today.

As fathers, as coaches, as mentors?

We model it.

We name it.

We stop laughing off toxic behavior as “boys being boys” or “locker room talk.”

We stop making excuses for the kids who can score goals but can’t manage their emotions.

We hold them accountable from the start, not to shame them, but to guide them.

We remind them that accountability isn’t punishment. It’s an invitation to grow.

Because if we don’t teach them to take ownership now, they’ll spend a lifetime armoring up and lashing out. And they’ll end up hurting the people closest to them, including themselves.

I wish these situations were more rare than they are. But the truth is, we all see them, unfolding quietly and painfully in group chats, on the sidelines, and around kitchen tables.

And while some kids may eventually find their way, many remain lost in the noise, perpetually stuck beneath armor they don’t yet have the tools to shed.

But over time, it’s not just the boys who struggle. It’s the people around them who start to wear down, teammates, coaches, and even parents, exhausted by the constant resistance, confusion, and hurt.

Sometimes the compassion we ask of our kids wears thin. Teammates grow tired. Coaches run out of energy. Parents begin to question how much grace is too much. And that’s real.

Because it’s hard to be around someone who refuses to be accountable. It’s draining to continually extend compassion and understanding to someone determined to push it aside.

As hard as it is, I still hold out hope that many of these young men will find their way in a world that seems to broadcast the wrong signals of what strength, manhood, and worth really feel and look like.

I know it’s not easy. It will take mentors, coaches, parents, and peers who understand that accountability and compassion aren’t enemies, but allies. It will take seeing through the behavior, while still demanding better.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers. But here’s what I do know:

They don’t need more praise, they need more truth.

Because arrogance isn’t confidence. Bravado isn’t strength.

And if we can help them understand that, real transformation can begin.