Full Count

Yesterday started heavy.

First one-on-ones with a new team.

You could feel it in the air before the calls even started. That quiet tension. The kind that comes with change, uncertainty, and a new voice stepping in.

So we talked.

Set expectations.
Set boundaries.
Gave them a way to hold me accountable too.

And one by one, the calls shifted.

You could hear it.

That exhale at the end.

Not everything solved. Not everything perfect.

But lighter.

By the time we got to the team meeting at the end of the day, it felt different. Ground rules laid out. Direction clear. We ended early.

That felt right.

Last night was better.

Zoey stayed home, catching up on school.

The boys and I headed to the field.

Jacob was up first.

He did great.

But there was one moment that stuck with me.

He was standing out in the outfield. Hat backwards. Sunglasses on. Glove in hand.

Relaxed.

Ready.

And for just a second… I didn’t see my little boy.

I saw a high school player.

Calm. Confident. Belonging out there.

I almost took a picture.

But I didn’t.

Some moments aren’t meant to be saved.

They’re meant to be felt.

He had a couple solid plays.

Quicker on the grounders. More confident.

At one point he made a snap throw from right field to second.

It’s not that far.

Until it is.

Until it’s your kid out there, and suddenly the field feels like an ocean.

Then came David.

Same field.

Different energy.

The sound changes when the older boys take over.

The cracks are louder. The throws sharper. The rhythm faster.

The coach we met last year was there. The reason we came back. A guy who speaks truth into those boys and expects something from them.

That matters.

They scrimmaged the last half.

First at bat.

First pitch.

First swing.

Solid single.

Would have made it clean… if he hadn’t slid into first.

I laughed.
The coach laughed.
Then corrected him.

David just stood up smiling.

Later in the inning, a ball cracked between third and short.

There were runners on first and second.

No outfield needed.

He hustled.

Barehanded it on the hop.

Flicked it to third.

Everyone was yelling to go to first.

He wasn’t.

He saw the field.

He knew the play.

Force out at third.

The instinct was right. The awareness was there.

The throw sailed just a little high.

If it comes down a few inches lower, he gets the out.

The coach clapped him up.

The field noticed.

He turned and looked at me.

And smiled.

Last at bat.

Ball up the middle.

He’s moving.

Rounds first hard.

Makes second before the throw.

Error in the field.

Ball gets away.

He keeps going.

Rounds third…

…and then looks up.

Out.

Halfway between third and home.

Still smiling.

They have both come a long way.

David over the last year.

Jacob over the last month.

Both of them finding their footing in their own way.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I realized something again.

I don’t just love watching them play.

I love watching them become.

This afternoon, I’m off work.

There’s a list.

Haircuts.
Butcher.
Groceries.
Hardware store.

All before dinner.

Then the rest of the weekend:

Food pantry.
Baseball practices.
Chicken run.
Garden plans.
Finishing the office.

Hamburgers and hotdogs on the grill Saturday night.

Sunday, my wife and daughter playing together at church. Easter cantata. They’ve been working hard for it.

Brunch after.

Maybe baseball on TV.

Trying to decide between the games the kids like.

White Sox. Cardinals. Cubs.

And now the Red Sox too, at least for Asher, though that one might be a little earlier than we’re ready for.

Doesn’t really matter to me.

I like baseball first.

Teams second.

Any of them will do.

And then…

Monday.

It always comes fast.

But that’s Monday.

This is Friday.

The work got done.
The conversations were had.
The boys showed up.

And the weekend is waiting.

This is where I’m ending the week.

Still a dad. Still figuring it out.
Choosing to enjoy it while it’s happening.

Much love. Stay safe. Wash your damn hands.
I’ll see you next time.