The team picked up the ‘ship this weekend. Undefeated in pool play—run ruling each team, winning 15-0. My son had an amazing game pitching the first pool game and even started hitting better—no doubt thanks to all the soft toss we worked on throughout the week.

I’m really proud of the progress he’s made so far this season. Running still isn’t back to full strength after the football injury, but he’s working hard, and it’s starting to show. His confidence at the plate is growing, and his command on the mound looked the best it has all year.

But then came bracket play.

We earned the #1 seed and didn’t have to play until 2 PM. The excitement was there, the boys were fired up—but my son didn’t play. Not in the semis. Not in the finals.

There could be reasons. Maybe his leg. Maybe strategy. Maybe a message. I don’t know. And to be honest, I’ve been wrestling with how I feel about it.

On one hand, I’m so proud of what he’s accomplished this season. To pitch the way he has just six months after surgery—after having a metal rod inserted in his tibia—is incredible. And to keep showing up, putting in the work, and smiling through it all… my kid’s kind of a rockstar. He’s never once complained. He never quits. He just grabs his glove, heads to practice, and finds joy in the game and his teammates.

So why does it still bother me that the coach won’t let him play in bracket games? The ones that mean the most? The games that come with rings, trophies, and medals?

What kind of message does that send—to the team, to the other coaches, and to me, his biggest fan? Most importantly… what kind of message does it send to him?

I’d be lying if I said the frustration didn’t creep in. I found myself sitting in the stands wondering what else he had to do to earn a shot. He’s one of the hardest-working kids out there. He cheers on every teammate. He plays his role without complaint. And still, when the moments got big he was left on the bench.

I know playing time isn’t guaranteed. I know coaches make tough calls. I even understand that this is part of the game and part of life. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. Not just for him, but for me too.

Because I see all the extra reps in the backyard. I see the limp when he pushes through sprints. I see the disappointment in his eyes when his name isn’t called. And I see how hard he works to hide it with a smile.

And yet, he never complains. He still high-fived his teammates after every win. He posed for pictures with a ring he didn’t get to earn on the field. He celebrated everyone else’s moment like it was his own.

That’s the kind of teammate he is. That’s the kind of kid he is.

Maybe that’s the real win.

Maybe these are the moments that shape who he becomes—when no one’s watching, when the lights aren’t on, when his name isn’t in the lineup. Maybe this is where grit grows. Where humility takes root. Where character forms.

And maybe… one day, when the stakes are even higher, he’ll be ready. Not just because he can throw a strike or hit a ball, but because he knows how to handle the waiting. The disappointment. The long game.

So yeah, we took home the ‘ship this weekend.

But more than that—I watched my son grow. And in the long run, that might matter more than any ring.