As a child, I was constantly in motion basketball, softball, karate name it and I likely gave it a shot. I wasn’t the greatest player on the team, but my height used to put me in the middle of the thick of things. Some of my best memories are of hot summer afternoons watching from dugouts, racing around bases, and marching through town in our youth baseball league.
When I discovered I would be a mom, I couldn’t help but envision my child playing sports in the future. My son Austin was born in 2012, and from the time he was able to grasp a ball, he was tossing it at times to the dog, at times at others, and at times into the TV. His passion for the sport began early and continued to build with each passing day.
When Austin was four, he played on his first t-ball team. I enjoyed watching him out there — his small uniform flapping from his shoulders, his big smile as he scrambled after balls with his friends. All the kids sprinted for the same hit, and it was unadulterated, crazy joy. I still have that small navy-blue jersey stored away with all the others he’s played in since.
As he aged, so did his skill. By the time of coach pitch, he was getting solid hits and stepping onto the field with the kind of confidence that only children possess. Machine pitch was more difficult his timing faltered, and frustration began seeping in. I recalled our guidelines: always try your best, be a good sport, and if it’s no longer fun, we’ll play something else. He didn’t give up. Instead, he just kept coming, and eventually, the hits began rolling in.
Last spring, he had his best season on record. He played first base and pitched, hit a couple in-the-park home runs, and celebrated like his Atlanta Braves heroes. When he was asked to play for the all-star team, he radiated pride. His work ethic was getting its reward, and he knew it.
But our enthusiasm was soon changed to something else on the first all-star scrimmage. For the first time this season, Austin sat on the bench inning after inning. I sat in the stands and watched as his smile disappeared and doubt crept in. Every instinct was to go over and console him, but I didn’t. I let him tough it out. When the game was over, he was silent but calm. Later, as I prepared dinner, he said to me, “I’m just glad to continue playing baseball, Mom.” My heart expanded he wasn’t bitter; he was thankful.
Desperate to boost his spirits, I contacted one of his all-time favorite players, Pablo Sandoval, on Instagram. I didn’t think I’d get a response, but to my astonishment, Pablo left a voice message telling Austin to keep having faith in himself and never lose hope. That meant everything to him — and to me.
Our all-star year didn’t last very long, but Austin’s attitude never faltered. He cheered on his teammates, remained optimistic, and seized every opportunity to learn. Seeing him deal with disappointment so gracefully made me see something: sometimes the lesson isn’t for our children it’s for us. We need to shield them from hurt, but if we jump in too soon, we deprive them of the opportunity to grow.
Only a few weeks ago, Austin auditioned for a travel team and did not make it. I was devastated, but he just took his bat, headed out the door, and began practicing. “I’m practicing my stance,” he told me. That day reminded me just how tough he is.
Austin still has his loud, goofy moments the ones that make his little brother nuts but I also catch glimpses of the considerate, gentle young man he is growing up to be. His religion, his educators, and our community have all contributed to helping mold him into who he is.
As parents, we’ll always want to step in, to protect our kids from hurt. But I’ve learned to pause, to let him face his challenges first. Because every time he does, he comes out stronger and I’m always right there in the stands, cheering him on.
