I’m terrible at a lot of things, but especially at baseball. I know this because my Little League coach told me so when I was eleven. I was, perhaps, a bit pudgy and uncoordinated for my age, so things like throwing and catching and running were embarrassingly problematic. Still, I showed up to every practice and every game, believing my coach would help me become a little less awful.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he focused on the better players and optimized the roster to maximize their impact on the team—and to minimize mine. On the rare occasions when I got to bat, he advised me not to swing, trusting I’d either be walked or beaned by an errant pitch. Because I was pudgy and uncoordinated, I mostly got beaned. In fact, I don’t remember ever making it to first base without tears and a fresh bruise.
“Just rub a little dirt on that and walk it off,” my coach would laugh from the dugout. “At least you didn’t strike out again.”
By the end of the season, I hated baseball. I also hated football, basketball, and all the other so-called “team” sports, and I never played them again. Why would I? My coach’s actions and words told me I was terrible.
And I believed him.
That’s why I winced when my eleven-year-old son decided to sign up for a summer baseball league. He’d never played before and was, perhaps, a bit undersized for his age, so competing against more experienced players would likely be problematic. He was persistent, though, so I reluctantly took him to every practice and every game, fearing the coach would permanently mar my son’s self-confidence.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he focused on better fundamentals and optimized the roster to ensure everyone had equal playing time—win or lose. Not because he believed every kid was worthy of a trophy, but simply because he believed every kid was worthy. He encouraged them to be bold and try new positions, so my son rotated through the outfield, first base, shortstop, and pitcher. And whenever it was time to bat, the coach would tell him to wait for a good pitch, then swing for the moon.
And he did.
By the end of the season, my son loved baseball. He was excited to play again next year and planned to try out for the elite basketball team in the fall. And why wouldn’t he? His coach’s actions and words told him he was great.
And he believed him.
