In 21st-century sports, it’s not just about kids playing—it’s all about practice, skill development, and Long-Term Athletic Development (LTAD). Whether your kid is aiming goals on the soccer field, swinging clubs on the golf course, or tossing a football, LTAD seems like the Holy Grail in sports. But is it?
You might have encountered its literature or been presented with the prospect of improved results or athletic scholarships. It’s omnipresent. Yet, amidst all this buzz, here’s the snag—it’s not science; it’s more like an exaggerated sales pitch, a ploy to push stuff you probably don’t need.
LTAD has its roots dating back to the mid-1950s, when Eastern Bloc countries, led by the former Soviet Union, laid the groundwork for sports schools that held sway over international competitions until the early 1970s. Then, in 1995, Istvan Balyi, a sports scientist from British Columbia’s National Coaching Institute, dropped a bombshell—a four-stage training model: FUNdamentals, Training to Train, Training to Compete, and Training to Win. This framework aimed to cater to both sports performance and participation paths.
But like every story, LTAD has a shadowy side. An Athletics Canada publication raises a startling notion: “Kids failing to develop their motor skills by age 12 may never unlock their full athletic potential. The entirety of your child’s sports future could supposedly be sealed by the time they’re barely into puberty—a day lazing on the couch could potentially shatter your sporting aspirations!”
This extreme claim isn’t alone in the ring. Tennis Canada recently championed LTAD, citing a book titled Range by David Epstein as a cornerstone. However, here’s the kicker: Epstein, not precisely an academic titan, delved into an environmental science degree and penned works covering the Alex Rodriguez steroids scandal. Despite being labeled as non-fiction, relying on this book as a guiding light for kids’ athletic futures seems quite a stretch.
Our fascination with predictions spans centuries—from biblical prophecies to Nostradamus and today’s obsession with fantasy sports. The catch? We’re atrocious at it. Case in point: 2022’s “March Madness” brackets—everyone took a nosedive by the first Friday. Over 100 million brackets have been used since 2016, and not a single one has come close to perfection. Even Warren Buffett, in 2008, waved a flag at hedge funds, showcasing our inability to foresee the future. His bet against a managed fund easily trounced the competition.
It’s tempting to resonate with the Invictus poem, feeling like the captain of your fate. But let’s get real—life’s more like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’ll get. Despite the sales pitch, no coach or plan holds the crystal ball to predict the next GOAT or foresee winners in any given showdown. Asserting otherwise is simply the height of arrogance.
Research into LTAD’s effectiveness? Surprise, surprise—there’s a glaring absence of research supporting their efficacy. There’s a dearth of solid research supporting LTAD’s claims of success. Critics’ skepticism in academic circles echoes throughout, yet the LTAD juggernaut continues to roll on. Why? Because it’s tightly woven into the fabric of youth sports marketing.
In ongoing preliminary research with colleagues from major universities, which is currently under peer review, we analyze data from 4,000 Americans. Our findings show that a negative experience in youth sports has a more significant detrimental impact on a person longer than not participating in sport. The messages we send kids have deep meaning and impact on their lives, and they deserve better than current LTAD models.
Youth sports, once about skill honing, have devolved into a game of winning at all costs. It’s high time for a recalibration. Instead of rewarding early bloomers or prodigies, let’s champion camaraderie, passion, and the sweat equity of effort. Here’s the deal: at tryouts, assess skills, assign tasks, and retest after 2-3 weeks of unsupervised practice. Those striving for improvement deserve extra coaching; those not showing dedication might need to explore other avenues.
In athletic development, the blueprint often revolves around structured plans, prescribed routines, and vigilant oversight. Yet, upon closer inspection, a striking paradox emerges—excellence, in its purest form, often stands at odds with this regimented paradigm. Rather than being crafted within the confines of meticulously planned programs, true excellence appears to be the offspring of a different breed altogether: the autodidact. These self-motivated individuals operate on a different wavelength. They veer away from prescribed paths, driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge and achievement. They embody the spirit of self-directed learning, thriving when they dive headfirst into activities that pique their intrinsic curiosity. Their pursuit isn’t just about reaching a predefined goal; it’s an immersive journey fueled by a fervent desire to understand, grow, and excel. The seeds of true greatness seem to be sown within this organic process, guided by their innate self-interest.
The reality is that LTAD is an experiment on kids gone wrong, taking us back to the Milgram experiments. As you might recall, in the 1960s, Yale professor Stanley Milgram tested people’s obedience. Like in these experiments, sports organizations exercise control over parents, peddling their bogus development under the guise that “you must continue.” The problem is that no science supports their claims, and this is not an experiment. Instead, it’s the lives of our kids that make the actions of sports organizations extremely troubling.
While LTAD may peddle the dream of guaranteed sports success, reality paints a different picture—life’s success is, at best, an unpredictable ride. It’s about time we shift gears, stop being our own worst version of a Communist block, and shift away from these bogus pathways.
As adults, our jobs should be to ensure kids’ sporting experiences orbit around growth, perseverance, and relishing the joy of the game, not some sports experiment based on the illusory, predetermined sporting destiny.
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Cover graphic courtesy YouTube
