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Some of the happiest days in my son’s life—and in mine—occurred during the years when he was playing baseball in Little League.
I enjoyed watching his development from a tentative T-ball player to a member of the championship teams of later years. I even enjoyed all those hot dogs. I don’t remember ever being as happy or as proud of him, however, as I was after his very last Little League championship game.
My Beloved Son. It was the top of the ninth, three men were on base, and he stepped up to the plate. Then he struck out. Why was I happy? Surely it was not because of his dejection and momentary failure, but rather because of how he handled this difficult moment.
Just a few years earlier, he would have spread the blame (bad weather, nonsupportive teammates, or a bungling coach). Not this time. He quietly admitted, “I messed up.” He was only ten years old, but the wisdom and…
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