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There’s a soft thud from the hallway—the sound of a small, bare foot hitting the wood floor just so. It’s a rhythm I know by heart. A moment later, my son is beside me on the sofa, leaning his head against my arm, his breath warm against my skin. The television is on, but quietly, painting the dim room in a soft, grassy green.
The low hum of the baseball game has been the soundtrack to our quiet afternoon. Dishes are stacked by the sink, waiting patiently. A blanket is pooled on the floor where a block tower stood just an hour ago. And on the screen, a young man is on the pitcher’s mound, taking a deep breath of his own.
I’ve been half-watching, half-listening. It’s one of those games where you feel the tension more than you see it. Every pitch feels like a held breath. The announcer says his name — Edward Cabrera — and talks about potential, about the wild, beautiful power in his arm and the struggle to command it. He says it like a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
And I feel a gentle, familiar pull in my chest. It’s the same feeling I get watching my son try to write his name, his small hand gripping the crayon so tightly, his tongue stuck out in concentration. He knows what he wants the letters to look like, the idea is so clear in his head, but making his hand do the work is another story entirely. There’s a gap between the knowing and the doing.
We see it everywhere, don’t we? That space between what is and what could be. We see it in ourselves when we lose our patience after promising to be calm. We see it in the garden, in the seeds that don’t quite take. And I see it on that pitcher’s mound, in the flicker of frustration and hope that crosses a young man’s face, broadcast for millions to see.
There is something so incredibly human in that struggle. To have all the talent in the world, a gift that feels like lightning in a bottle, and yet to wrestle with the simple act of letting it go in just the right way. It’s a quiet reminder that the most powerful things are often the hardest to control. It asks for a different kind of watching, a different kind of rooting — not just for the win, but for the settling, for the moment when the body and mind finally align and find their peace.
My son sighs, fidgets, and goes back to his blocks. The thud of the baseball hitting the catcher’s glove fills the room again. Another pitch. Another held breath. 🧸
I wonder, what are the things we are quietly rooting for, not just to succeed, but simply to find their way?
The low hum of the baseball game has been the soundtrack to our quiet afternoon. Dishes are stacked by the sink, waiting patiently. A blanket is pooled on the floor where a block tower stood just an hour ago. And on the screen, a young man is on the pitcher’s mound, taking a deep breath of his own.
I’ve been half-watching, half-listening. It’s one of those games where you feel the tension more than you see it. Every pitch feels like a held breath. The announcer says his name — Edward Cabrera — and talks about potential, about the wild, beautiful power in his arm and the struggle to command it. He says it like a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
And I feel a gentle, familiar pull in my chest. It’s the same feeling I get watching my son try to write his name, his small hand gripping the crayon so tightly, his tongue stuck out in concentration. He knows what he wants the letters to look like, the idea is so clear in his head, but making his hand do the work is another story entirely. There’s a gap between the knowing and the doing.
We see it everywhere, don’t we? That space between what is and what could be. We see it in ourselves when we lose our patience after promising to be calm. We see it in the garden, in the seeds that don’t quite take. And I see it on that pitcher’s mound, in the flicker of frustration and hope that crosses a young man’s face, broadcast for millions to see.
There is something so incredibly human in that struggle. To have all the talent in the world, a gift that feels like lightning in a bottle, and yet to wrestle with the simple act of letting it go in just the right way. It’s a quiet reminder that the most powerful things are often the hardest to control. It asks for a different kind of watching, a different kind of rooting — not just for the win, but for the settling, for the moment when the body and mind finally align and find their peace.
My son sighs, fidgets, and goes back to his blocks. The thud of the baseball hitting the catcher’s glove fills the room again. Another pitch. Another held breath. 🧸
I wonder, what are the things we are quietly rooting for, not just to succeed, but simply to find their way?
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