Season's End

Another chapter has closed, and just like that—our 12U baseball season is in the books.

It didn’t end the way we hoped. There was no championship trophy, no dogpile on the mound. Instead, there were quiet car rides and a lingering feeling of so close, yet not quite. But as I sit here reflecting, I realize that trophies, rings and banners were never the real reward anyway.

This season was full of struggle—and not the kind that breaks you, but the kind that shapes you. I watched my son battle slump after slump at the plate. I saw the frustration in his eyes, the tears he tried to blink away, the way he clenched his fists after a strikeout—sometimes even yelling out in frustration, using words I wish he wouldn’t. (Still ended the season with over a .420 batting average) And I watched him keep showing up. Every single game. Every single inning. He never backed down. He fought through it.

He found other ways to contribute—getting on base when it mattered most, throwing out runners from behind the plate with pinpoint accuracy, and stepping up to fill nearly every position on the field (shortstop and first base were the only ones untouched by his cleats). Early in the season, he earned an MVPitcher award, and later, with just five innings pitched in the end of season elite invitational, still finished in the top 20 pitchers of the tournament. That’s grit. That’s heart. That’s something stats don’t always show.

We made memories that go far beyond the fence line. Pool parties. Long, hot tournament days. Team dinners. Late-night talks in hotel rooms. Parents who started as strangers, becoming a second family—cheering for each other’s kids like their own. And then there’s the nickname “Baldy,” which caught on before any of us knew it was happening. Even the other parents call him that now, and somehow, it fits him- and he owns it.

This season, I learned some lessons of my own. Like how hard it is to let go of the instinct to give advice mid-game—especially when he’s on the mound or in the box. I’m learning that my “calm down” only fuels the storm, and sometimes, the most loving thing I can do is just be there. Silent. Present. Supportive.

There’s something about the way he looks at me when he steps up to bat—a glance that says, Are you watching? Do you see me? And the truth is, I see all of it. Every swing, every miss, every hustle to first base. Every high-five, every tear wiped quickly on a sleeve. Every ounce of heart he’s poured into this game.

To say I’m proud would be an understatement. I got to spend this season with him on the road, under the sun, after the numerous championship wins and the devastating losses.

That time? It’s indescribable. Priceless. Sacred.