I’m one of those people who always prepare myself for the worst, but secretly hope for the best while trying to remain a wave of optimism in a sea of uncertainty, doubt, and the things I can’t control. I don’t like to be disappointed, and I can’t help but always have the feeling that anything is possible—regardless of any roadblock, noise, or voices that say otherwise.
Saturday marked the start of our first in a series of competitive baseball tournaments over the next few months. To our surprise—and relief—our pool play games kicked off at a reasonable hour. The team hit the field at 12:00 and 2:00, sporting fresh uniforms and carrying that same wave of optimism I felt. They were ready—not just to compete with the new additions to the roster, but also to reconnect with familiar faces from last season.
It was sunny and 75—basically perfect—if you ignore the Kansas wind doing its best impression of a leaf blower on full blast. My hair gave up trying, and I’m pretty sure I still have dirt in my teeth. But this was spring baseball season in northeast Kansas, and we all counted our blessings that at least it wasn’t snowing.
I’m always excited to head back out to the fields, but this season hit a little differently since an injury during football season had sidelined my son for much of the fall and winter months. In fact, the transition from wheelchair, to walking boot, to regular old tennis shoe had just recently occurred and the journey to gain back the muscle and momentum to walk like a regular human being was still a work in progress. Stiffness was slowing him down, and considering he wasn’t exactly Speedy Gonzales to begin with, stealing bases started to look more like a suggestion than a strategy.
We’d gone through physical therapy and followed every at-home exercise they’d suggested, but learning how to walk, run, and even move quickly again was a whole new challenge—especially with a nail now securing the weight-bearing tibia in his right leg. I was optimistic for him, but mostly hopeful because although I understood the seriousness of his injury, I refused to believe that the boy who loved baseball would be sitting out for his 13U season.
As the first game warm ups began, I saw him on the sideline throwing to the outfielders and I knew he would be sitting out. His usual spot at first base was now taken by one of the new teammates, but there was plenty of game left to play. The coach had always been fair about playing time, so I wasn’t worried that he was being singled out—this wasn’t about a lack of confidence in his abilities. In fact, I suspected he might be brought in to pitch later, as the coach typically liked to give the other pitchers a rest before and after their innings.
Three innings, a few walks, and a couple of wild pitches later—it finally happened. The coach called time and walked out to the mound. With the bases loaded and our pitcher clearly running on fumes, it was time to bring in the reliever to try and close things out. The coach turned to the dugout and gave the signal. That’s when my son popped up and did his signature ‘walkie-run-skip’ onto the field—yes, that’s what I’ve officially named it. Time to bring the heat, I thought, wearing a quiet confidence while silently praying he had it in him today—not just to prove it to the crowd, but to remind himself that he could still own this moment.
He took the mound with that same familiar look of focus I’d seen so many times before—only this time, it carried something extra. A touch of uncertainty, maybe. But also a quiet fire. He threw his warm-up pitches, took a deep breath, and got to work.
And he delivered.
He pitched us out of the jam and held strong to finish the game. His team won the first game, and he walked off the field not just as the winning pitcher, but as a kid who had just proved to himself that he was back. Later, he added a hard-hit single and drew a walk in the second game—small moments that built something bigger: confidence. Not just in him, but in me, too. Confidence that the recovery road we’d walked had been worth every slow, frustrating step.
By the end of Saturday, we were undefeated in pool play and had earned the 4th seed out of 17 teams. We were feeling good. Really good.
Then the bracket schedule dropped… and somehow, we pulled the 8 a.m. game on Sunday.
The boys showed up early, but the magic didn’t. The energy wasn’t the same. The bats were slow, the arms were tired, and the spark that carried us through Saturday just didn’t quite show up when we needed it most. We lost that first bracket game, and just like that—our weekend ended earlier than we hoped.
But still, we walked away with more than we came with: a reminder that comebacks are possible, and belief—once reignited—can carry a kid, a team, and even a hopeful mom a long way.
Baseball has a funny way of teaching you things in innings and at-bats. This weekend, it reminded me that grit beats fear, and momentum starts with one brave moment on the mound.
And if we’re lucky, we’ve got a whole season full of those moments ahead.
One response
Wow, this really hit home. That mix of guarded hope and deep love is so real—especially when you’re watching your child bounce back from something tough. It’s incredible how much resilience these kids show, and how much strength we find in ourselves cheering them on!