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My son spent the better part of an hour trying to teach himself how to whistle yesterday. It was a funny, breathy affair — all puffed-out cheeks and sputtering sounds, his face a perfect picture of concentration. My first instinct, as always, was to jump in. To show him the “right” way, to fix it, to help him find the note he was looking for.
But I held back, watching from the kitchen with my hands submerged in warm dishwater. I just let him be. Let him fail and try again in that little bubble of his own effort. There’s a quiet wisdom in letting things be hard for a little while.
My mind drifted to the television, which has been humming with baseball talk lately. I found myself thinking about that young man, Jackson Holliday, who arrived in the big leagues with the sound of a symphony behind him. The number one prospect, the can’t-miss kid. The whole world was watching, waiting for the explosion of talent we were all promised.
And then… quiet. The hits didn’t come. Each at-bat felt heavier than the last. You could almost feel the weight of a city’s hopes pressing down on his shoulders. From the soft glow of my living room, it was hard to watch. It felt less like a game and more like a public struggle.
When they sent him back down to the minor leagues, the noise was immediate. A failure, a mistake, a miscalculation. But I felt a strange sense of relief, both for him and for his family. It felt like an act of care. A quiet gift of being sent back to your room, in a way. Not as a punishment, but to have a moment to breathe. To find that whistle without the whole world listening in.
There’s no shame in needing a little more time. There’s no shame in needing the lights to be a little less bright so you can find your footing. Success isn’t always a straight, soaring line. Sometimes it’s a detour through a quieter town, a place where you can remember the simple joy of playing the game, of hearing the crack of the bat just for yourself. A place where you can try, and fail, and try again, with only the afternoon sun as your witness. 🧸
I wonder if the greatest act of support isn’t just cheering for the successes, but trusting the process of the struggle. What if being sent down wasn’t a step back, but the most important step forward he could have taken?
But I held back, watching from the kitchen with my hands submerged in warm dishwater. I just let him be. Let him fail and try again in that little bubble of his own effort. There’s a quiet wisdom in letting things be hard for a little while.
My mind drifted to the television, which has been humming with baseball talk lately. I found myself thinking about that young man, Jackson Holliday, who arrived in the big leagues with the sound of a symphony behind him. The number one prospect, the can’t-miss kid. The whole world was watching, waiting for the explosion of talent we were all promised.
And then… quiet. The hits didn’t come. Each at-bat felt heavier than the last. You could almost feel the weight of a city’s hopes pressing down on his shoulders. From the soft glow of my living room, it was hard to watch. It felt less like a game and more like a public struggle.
When they sent him back down to the minor leagues, the noise was immediate. A failure, a mistake, a miscalculation. But I felt a strange sense of relief, both for him and for his family. It felt like an act of care. A quiet gift of being sent back to your room, in a way. Not as a punishment, but to have a moment to breathe. To find that whistle without the whole world listening in.
There’s no shame in needing a little more time. There’s no shame in needing the lights to be a little less bright so you can find your footing. Success isn’t always a straight, soaring line. Sometimes it’s a detour through a quieter town, a place where you can remember the simple joy of playing the game, of hearing the crack of the bat just for yourself. A place where you can try, and fail, and try again, with only the afternoon sun as your witness. 🧸
I wonder if the greatest act of support isn’t just cheering for the successes, but trusting the process of the struggle. What if being sent down wasn’t a step back, but the most important step forward he could have taken?
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