Dear Coach...

Last night, you coached the team opposing my son's t-ball team. Most of us showed up in awe that we had come this far in the playoffs. Our boys were grateful to play another night. I had mixed feelings because my family had been at either the ballpark or the soccer fields for the last six nights, watching at least one of my three boys play. I was tired. But Max is our youngest, and the poor kid hardly ever has his entire family there to watch him play, so last night was special.

I'll be honest. I can't stand our team. And if I were you, I'd hate us. Some of our moms are crazy. And by crazy, I mean that they might actually believe that SEC scouts are hiding somewhere in the crowd, watching their boy play and dreaming of the day they can sign him to their team. I frequently grieve for those boys, as I watch their mamas verbally dress them down in front of the other boys for errors I would expect from six-year olds. And if those mamas believe their boy has been wronged, I would advise the opposing coaches and the umpire to head for cover. It's gonna get nasty.

So last night, when my son was skipped in the batting order and it was brought to your attention, you had a choice to make.

In the five minutes previous, the dugout mom had given her son a verbal lashing like few I had witnessed, and in the process, lost focus and skipped Max in the lineup. Sadly, I was so caught up in the drama that I didn't notice my own son's tears of disappointment until two batters later. When I did, I rushed over. I knew as he told me he'd been skipped in the order that it could be an out. I have years of playoff experience under my belt from my oldest boy, and I knew that a mistake like this could cost us the game. But in that split second, all I could think about was the disappointment in my own child's eyes. Maybe I should have explained to him that putting him up to bat now could draw attention to the team's error, and possibly cost them the game. But I didn't. I selfishly decided in that instant that his love of the game was more important than a win.

So there we were, waiting anxiously, as the ump approached you. You shrugged your shoulders and indicated that it wasn't a big deal. And just like that, you became the hero of the evening. You didn't even hesitate. I don't know if you saw the tears on my boy's face, or the anxiety on mine. I don't know if you had any idea how awful our moms can be. But you put my son above your need to win.

I believe that it is in these little moments that we show our true character. You showed yourself to be a gentleman.

Thank you. Thank you for teaching my boy that being a gentleman has a place on the ball field. It may not seem like a big deal to you, but for me, it was a bright moment in an otherwise bleak evening.

With gratitude,
Max's mom

P.S. Can we pleeeeease be on your team next year?