You see them standing along the sidelines at a Bantam League football practice, pacing behind a Little League backstop or sitting on the edge of a gymnasium bleacher. They are intense, focused and verbal. They are dads who are living vicariously through their sons.

To be fair, the majority of fathers are not foaming-at-the-mouth maniacs who yell and curse at their kid for every missed tackle, clanked free throw or dropped pop fly. Most dads are patient and positive, encouraging and commiserating, really solid guys who take the time and interest to show their son how to play the game. They want their son to do well and his team to win. But they don’t care if he strikes out; they just want him to swing the bat and try his best.

Then there are other fathers...

You can recognize them easily. They wear NFL or Major League Baseball replica jerseys. They walk around in $100 Nike cross trainers, oblivious to the realization that they can’t run 100 yards or bench press 100 pounds. They might be ex-jocks who want their son to be better than they were. Or, maybe they played trombone in the marching band and coveted the attention given to a team’s top players.

For these dads, showing up at the games isn’t enough. They have to attend every practice and scrutinize every scrimmage, every drill. They constantly evaluate their son’s performance, determined to make the coach recognize their kid’s obvious superior ability.

These are the dads who make youth sports a pressure cooker for kids. They drive their sons (and daughters) hard. They can’t accept their kids’ failures, though the typical fifth-grader rarely possesses great athletic prowess or a killer instinct. Deep inside, they know their young son may never play high school or college or professional sports. But they can’t let go of the imagined glory that awaits him, if only he could score that last touchdown or make those winning free throws.

My son played all the youth sports, Bantam League football, Pony Baseball and Summer Jam. I’d like to think that I was one of the caring, interested fathers. And yet, maybe I was too interested. Maybe I showed too much approval for every home run and 3-pointer and not enough for every good report card.

It’s tough for a father to sit in the stands and just watch. It’s even more difficult when your son struggles or makes mistakes. If only you could somehow get his attention and point out the thing he’s doing wrong.

You yell, but he doesn’t hear you.

You yell louder, loud enough that two fans on the opposite sideline hear you, but he still doesn’t acknowledge your voice.

You make a mental note to talk to him when you get home. Maybe the coach has game film you could borrow. A little extra coaching in the backyard couldn’t hurt, could it?

If you’re a dad and you think these thoughts, you’re not alone. But resist the urge. Your son already has enough pressure just playing in front of a crowd. He already doesn’t want to disappoint his coach and teammates, and when you pile on your expectations, it can get overwhelming.

Let your son play his games. Watch from the stands and cheer him on. But, above all, let him know that you love him, whether he’s the star of the team or the scrub at the end of the bench.