Lessons From a Small Kid, Written for My Son
My first‑grade son, Matthew, is dealing with some boys in his class who have been verbally bullying him. They say things like, “You’re so small you must be a kindergartner.” He’s sensitive, and when he gets upset, it gives the other kids exactly the reaction they’re looking for.
As a parent, you tell him the classic advice: try not to react, or they’ll keep doing it. Kids can be mean. You talk to the teacher and ask that the boys be separated. You tell him that being small isn’t a bad thing. And then you write a blog entry about your own childhood as a small kid — and read it to him.
Because the truth is, it’s probably in his DNA. My father and I were both late growers. But here’s the good news: I’m average height now, and my dad ended up above average. And until Matthew gets there, good things really do come in small packages.
Growing Up Small
For the first fifteen years of my life, I was one of the smallest kids in my class. In eighth grade, I was the second shortest boy. (Thanks, Joey D, for being shorter.)
In early grade school, I was always one of the last boys picked in kickball. There was usually a girl — Sarah C — picked before me. Adult Dan knows she was simply a better athlete. Second‑grade Dan had a bruised ego and a burning desire to prove everyone wrong. That “I’ll show you” spark has always pushed me to work harder, be stronger, run faster, be smarter, and get better.
Being short didn’t mean I was weak. I had older brothers, and we played every sport imaginable. I was basically “all‑time defense,” rushing the quarterback for most of my childhood. It felt a little like the movie Rudy — and if you don’t tear up at the end of Rudy, I question your heart.
Sports, Coaches, and Learning the Hard Way
In little league baseball, I was one of the better players. I pitched, caught, and played shortstop. On the traveling all‑star team, I played second base. I wasn’t the best, but I was solid — strong arm, fast legs, lots of infield singles. Even today in competitive softball, my legs are still my biggest asset. I’ve learned to hit the ball farther (when I became an adult), but I’ve still never put one over the fence.
Football made my size more obvious. I played from fifth through seventh grade. My older brother Matt was a high school football star, and I wanted to be like him. My team was really good, which meant I was second string the whole time. I don’t think the coaches were great. Maybe they thought they were “toughening me up,” but I often ended up as a moving tackling dummy for the bigger, more athletic kids. I did get tougher, though.
I also took coaching very literally. When they tried me at quarterback, they kept saying, “Put your hands in farther,” when what they really meant was, “Open your hands.” Without clear direction, I struggled to take a snap.
Same thing in basketball. I was a point guard running the set offense in middle school. Again, second string. The coach never explained that I had the freedom to pass to someone else if the defender was overplaying the passing lane. A simple “tell him to cut backdoor” would’ve changed everything. I feel like they concentrated on the good players, leaving me and other second stringers to get better on our own. As a grown-up, coaching teams of my own, I have always tried to help everyone, not just the stars.
Social Stuff: The Harder Part
I’m sure I was occasionally bullied, but I don’t remember specific incidents in grade school. I mostly played with my brother Dave and our friends, who were different ages. We teased each other, but it wasn’t really bullying — we knew there was no bad intent, and we had each other's backs if push came to shove.
Middle and high school were tougher. I often felt isolated at lunch. The table that my best friends from my class sat at “didn’t have room for me.” That hurt. I ended up sitting with one other person, and it was usually awkward.
I don’t know if it was because I was small or because I was shy and quiet, but the girls gravitated to my friends and not me. Maybe I just smelled bad, or maybe I had some other blind spot that made me unattractive.
At my first sixth‑grade dance, I stood on the boys’ side of the gym, separated from the girls by an ocean of empty floor. An older kid set me up to dance with the tallest girl in the class — she was at least a foot taller than me. Picture a slow dance where you could fit two people between our arms. I didn’t laugh then, but looking back, it’s hilarious. And honestly, if you can laugh at yourself, it takes a lot of wind out of a bully’s sails.
Finding My Strength
By freshman year, I was still short, but I had developed some aggressiveness. I remember one football practice where I hit a receiver hard on a slant route. His reaction — “Whoa, where did that come from?” — stuck with me. Freshman, sophomore, and senior year, I was a captain and one of the leading tacklers. Mind you, I was still small sophomore year. My 21‑year‑old driver’s license said I was 5’2” and 115 pounds because they never updated it from my learner’s permit. Let me tell you how fun it is to show that ID to a bouncer at a club… a story for another time.
Even being smaller in high school, I traded the tentativeness of my youth for more confidence and aggressiveness — at least on the football field.
Junior year football was different. I broke my arm in summer drills and lost my edge and my shot at starting. A senior on the team bullied me a bit — physically and verbally. I told my brother Dave one night that I was done with it and was going to stand up to him, even if it meant a fight. I never had to fight. Once I stood up for myself, the bully stopped.
Dave was always my closest friend. Everyone needs someone they can talk to. He was that person for me.
There was another bully in high school whose locker was right next to mine. He was a bad kid who would verbally bully me. He called me “Jocko,” among other things. There’s a time to stand up to someone and a time to ignore them. This was the time to say “Okay” and walk away. His life was going nowhere, and standing up to him would have inevitably led to a fight. I would have won the physical fight but lost in other ways — academic or otherwise. That would have only brought me down. So I took the high road.
How This Connects to Matthew — and to Wiki’s Wonder Crew
As we write Wiki’s Wonder Crew, I can see how much of my “small kid” experience shows up in the stories — the underdog spirit, the quiet resilience, the humor, the heart, the desire to show that you are more than what people see on the outside.
So, Matthew, this part is for you.
What I Want You to Know
Bullies say things to get a reaction.
If you don’t react, it gets old fast.
Body language matters. Stand tall. Look at them briefly. Say “Okay.” Then walk away to your friends or your activity.
Don’t let anyone dare you into doing something unsafe.
Sometimes laughing along — not taking it too seriously — can take away their power. That could’ve helped me while dancing with the tallest girl. It might’ve helped with my shyness too.
You’re not alone. Lots of people get teased.
I wish I could tell you I always handled it well, but bullying gets to everyone. Knowing the tools — and practicing them with people who love you — turns fear into muscle memory.
There is a time to stand up for yourself. Some bullies back off when you do.
And there’s a time to ask for help from a grown‑up — a teacher, counselor, coach, or always a parent.
In all cases, tell us. We’re here for you.
You can say, “Say what you want — I’m good with who I am.” And mean it.
You’re smart, kind, talented, getting better at sports every day, and have a talent for maps and directions like no other kid I know.
You have a whole team of people who love you — your sisters, cousins, grandparents, friends, and especially your parents.
You can be brave even when you’re scared.
Things will get better.
You won’t always be small — but while you are, enjoy the advantages.
It’s not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog
Use it as motivation to be stronger, smarter, and a better person.
I admire kind, friendly people. And that’s who you are.
