I almost got thrown out of my son’s Little League game last Saturday. Not for yelling at the umpire. Not for arguing a call.
I almost got thrown out for what I wanted to say to the two dads sitting in the row behind me.
For ten full minutes, I sat there gripping the cold aluminum bleacher so hard my knuckles turned white. I was trying to figure out if I could get arrested for what I was thinking. Because for those ten minutes, these two men—who I’d seen at the local grocery store, who probably lived just a few streets over—were tearing my 12-year-old son apart.
“He’s just an automatic out.”
“Honestly, it’s like we’re playing with only eight guys on the field.”
“Why does the coach keep putting him in the lineup? He’s costing us the game.”
Each whisper felt like a shove. I stared straight ahead, my face burning, pretending to be fascinated by a cloud floating over the outfield.
Because that “automatic out” they were talking about?
That kid “costing them the game”?
He’s mine. He’s my son, Leo.
He’s the same Leo who, just eight months ago, was learning to walk again.
The same Leo who was hit by a distracted driver while riding his bike home from this exact park. The one who spent six weeks in a hospital bed with a shattered pelvis and two pins in his leg.
He’s the same kid who didn’t just do physical therapy; he did trauma therapy. The kid who, for months, would break into a cold sweat just hearing a car door slam. The one who had to fight through debilitating panic attacks just to cross the street to get the mail.
He begged me—begged me—to sign him up for baseball this season. Not because he thinks he’s the next superstar. Not for a scholarship. He wanted to play because his friends were playing. He wanted to wear the same jersey, chew the same gum, and spit the same sunflower seeds.
He just wanted, for one afternoon, to feel normal again.
He worked for months, long after his physical therapy ended, just to be able to swing a bat without his legs shaking. He knew he wouldn’t be the best. He promised me he’d just try his hardest, even if it meant striking out.
So when those dads, comfortable in their lawn chairs with their coolers, decided my son’s trauma-recovery-timeline wasn’t convenient for their Saturday entertainment, I wanted to turn around.
I wanted to show them the scars on his leg.
I wanted to tell them his story, right there, in front of everyone.
I wanted to ask, “Do you have any idea what it took for him to just step into that batter’s box?”
But I didn’t.
Because I knew if I opened my mouth, my words wouldn’t come out as a calm explanation. They’d come out as a sob. Or a scream.
On the drive home in our beat-up old minivan, Leo was quiet, staring out the window. My heart was in my stomach. Did he hear them?
Then, he turned to me, his face lit up with a small, proud smile.
“Mom,” he said, his voice hopeful. “I made contact this time. I almost got it past the pitcher. I think my swing is getting faster.”
And the breath I’d been holding for two hours finally came out.
He didn’t hear them. Thank God.
He wasn’t focused on the critics. He was focused on his own small, heroic progress.
But I heard them.
And I will never, ever forget it.
We live in a world that’s already so loud and so hard. We talk endlessly about “mental health” and “safe spaces” for our kids. We worry about bullies online. But we forget that sometimes, the most damaging bullying doesn’t come from other kids.
It comes from the bleachers. It comes from us.
We never know the battles these kids are fighting just to show up.
Some are fighting physical injuries.
Some are fighting crippling anxiety.
Some are fighting a learning disability that makes remembering the plays feel impossible.
Some are just fighting to believe, for one single inning, that they belong.
The least we can do—the absolute bare minimum—is not be the ones who crush them.
So here’s my plea, from one parent to another.
The next time you’re sitting at a game, and you feel that critical comment welling up in your throat…
Swallow it.
Cheer for the good plays. Be quiet for the bad ones.
You don’t need to tear down one child to lift up your own.
You don’t need to be a part-time critic to be a full-time fan.
Just clap.
Clap for the kid who strikes out.
Clap for the kid who drops the ball.
Clap for the kid who is visibly terrified but steps up to the plate anyway.
Because every single one of those children out there is someone’s entire world in sneakers, just trying to make it through the day.
Be the adult who makes them want to try again tomorrow.
That’s how you really win the game.
