I hate baseball.

I hate early morning games where the caffeine hasn’t kicked in and the players are still wiping sleep from their eyes. I hate bad calls from umpires who seem to be watching a different game than the rest of us. I hate the way one bad inning can unravel an entire day. I hate when my kid is in a slump and nothing I say makes it better. I hate the sunburn, the dirt in my shoes, the cramped bleachers, and the endless drive home after a loss.

This past weekend’s tournament was a roller coaster, and somehow I still feel as if I’m stuck in that endless loop. Hanging upside down. With my sunglasses sliding off my face. And someone else’s kid screaming directly into my ear while I try to remember if I even put on deodorant that morning.

One game we’re riding high, my kid pitching like he’s up for an MLB draft pick, parents high-fiving like we’ve trained for this moment our entire lives. The next? An 8 a.m. disaster where nobody can catch, throw, or remember which base to run to. We were making mistakes we haven’t seen since 8U, and even then, at least we had snacks.

Lately we’ve been scheduled for really good pool play times and then always seem to end up with an early start Sunday morning. This past weekend was no exception. Pool play started at 4 pm for us on Saturday, but due to a previous commitment, we were only able to make the 8 pm game later that night. While I over thought about what missing that game could potentially mean for my son, someone who isn’t fully healed from a serious injury and is still trying to maintain his spot on a highly competitive baseball team, I hoped that he would be given the opportunity to play in the second game that day and that he would prove to himself, and to the coach, that he still had what it took to be a leader and a vital asset to the team.

The first inning of that second game my son stepped onto the rubber and delivered. Easily striking out batters left and right. Those kids from the other team never even saw him coming. I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that this not only helped secure his spot but also gave him the much needed confidence to continue the healing process and have something to look forward to. After all, If he could pitch this well after having surgery 6 months ago, the sky was the limit for what he could do a year from now.

He gave up 5 hits and 1 run, striking out 6 and walking none. The final score was 13-1 and the coach of the other team even gave him the nomination card to attend the All-Star game at the end of the season. Things were looking good, and my son was so excited about the game he didn’t stop talking about it the entire drive home.

Then, the pool play results posted.

They had tied the first game and won the second, which gave them the number 3 spot. Somehow, this meant the 8 AM bracket game on Sunday morning.

Ughhhhhh…

So, there we were. Alarm set for 4:30 AM. Again. I don’t even remember brushing my teeth. I’m not sure my son even opened both eyes on the drive over. We arrived just in time to stretch and pretend like it wasn’t still the middle of the night.

He started at first base that morning. First bracket game. First inning. A routine hit to the outfield turns into chaos when a runner rounds third. The throw comes in to home, and suddenly my son’s getting yelled at. Loudly. “Where’s the cutoff?!” the coach yells, voice sharp like he’s been holding onto it since the last game. My son freezes, not because he doesn’t know, but because sometimes you just mess up. Then the next play, another shout: “Are you gonna hold him?!” referring to the runner on first. Two mistakes, back-to-back, and you could see it all over his face. The way a kid folds inward when they feel like they’ve already lost before the game’s even started.

I know my son. And I know that after that moment, he wasn’t really in the game anymore. And how could he be? He was running on four hours of sleep, still shaken from the earlier scolding, and now trying not to mess up even more. The coach didn’t ease up. After the inning ended, he called them out—hard. Threatened 6 AM scrimmages every Saturday until they learned how to “play the game right.”

They won that game. 17–4. You’d think that would soften things. But baseball has a funny way of handing out invisible punishments.

The next game was an extra innings nail-biter and my son sat the bench. Every. Single. Inning. Nine of them. Not one cleat on the dirt. And I sat there, heart aching, watching the kid who had just earned an All-Star nomination, the kid who pitched a near-perfect game the night before, reduced to nothing more than a backup option nobody called on.

The game ended in heartbreak. A balk call that let the other team score and knocked us out. That was it. Just like that our tournament run was over. Championship dreams, gone. And a quiet ride home with a boy who didn’t say a word for over an hour.

But somewhere along that quiet stretch of highway, I realized something: baseball changes in a heartbeat.

One inning, you’re at rock bottom. Lost, confused, and full of self-doubt. The next, you’re back on the mound, throwing heat like the world never knocked you down. One bad play doesn’t define a player. One rough inning doesn’t erase all the work, all the growth, all the grit it took to get here. And that’s not just baseball. That’s life.

It teaches you to show up even when you’re tired. To listen even when it’s hard. To shake it off, not because the moment didn’t hurt, but because you’re bigger than one moment. It teaches you that sometimes the biggest wins don’t come with trophies, but with lessons you’ll carry long after the final out.

I love baseball.

I love the crack of the bat in the early morning light. I love watching my son stretch wide at first base, toes dragging the bag, glove outstretched like the whole game depends on that one catch—because sometimes, it does. I love the smell of the dirt, the scribbled lineups, and the way a team turns into a family when no one’s watching. I love the long drives and late-night ice cream stops, the unspoken high-fives, the quiet confidence after a good play. I love the way it humbles you and the way it heals you. I love that it asks everything of you, and gives back even more.

Despite the tough loss and a morning that tested his confidence, it didn’t shake my son’s love for the game. That evening, he was already at home, scrolling through glove customizations, picking colors and laces like nothing had changed. Because in his heart, the game still means everything and he’s already looking forward to the next time he steps on the field.

Sometimes, the most important thing baseball teaches isn’t how to win—but how to stand back up.