Rebel Talk: Blacked Out

Last weekend was baseball.

Not a little baseball.

Not a couple games.

All baseball.

The kind of weekend where you're setting your alarm for 5:00 a.m., living on gas station coffee, sitting in the hot sun for hours, and wondering if your house will ever be in order again.

My oldest son had three games on Saturday.

An 8:00 a.m. game.

A 12:30 game.

And a 4:30 game.

By the time we finished the second game, I was cooked.

The team had gotten beat by some very good teams. The boys looked tired. The parents looked tired. I was tired.

Then came the third game.

The situation was simple.

If they lost, our weekend was over.

No baseball Sunday.

No 5:00 a.m. alarm.

No rushing out the door before sunrise.

Just a free day.

On the drive back to the field after lunch, my son and I were talking.

I explained the situation.

He looked at me and said, "Dad, I'm going to play hard, but it wouldn't be so bad if we lost. I want to go fishing tomorrow."

I laughed.

Because the truth is...

I felt exactly the same way.

I wanted him to play hard.

I wanted the team to compete.

But deep down, a free Sunday sounded pretty good.

Of course, I never said that out loud.

As we continued talking, I could tell he was frustrated.

The losses had taken a little wind out of his sails.

Not enough to quit.

Not enough to stop competing.

But enough that I could see it.

So I did what parents do.

I tried to pick him up.

I reminded him that one game doesn't define you.

One bad day doesn't define you.

One rough stretch doesn't define you.

You just keep showing up.

You keep competing.

You keep swinging.

When we got back to the field, everyone looked exhausted.

The boys were dusty.

The parents sat quietly along the fence.

Nobody was overflowing with energy.

Everyone was simply there because that's what commitment looks like.

The game started.

It was close.

Back and forth.

Nobody could pull away.

Then sometime in the middle innings, my son stepped into the batter's box.

Bases loaded.

I don't remember the count.

I don't remember the previous pitches.

I don't remember much of anything after what happened next.

I just remember hearing it.

CRACK.

Every parent who has watched enough baseball knows that sound.

The sound when the ball meets the sweet spot.

The sound that's different.

The sound that makes your eyes instantly follow the ball.

I watched it climb.

And climb.

And climb.

Straight toward center field.

Then it disappeared over the fence.

Gone.

Grand slam.

His first out-of-the-park home run.

With the bases loaded.

And I swear...

I blacked out.

Not literally.

But mentally.

Emotionally.

Everything happened so fast.

Parents were high-fiving me.

People were yelling.

The dugout erupted.

The boys were losing their minds.

And all I can really remember are flashes.

The crack of the bat.

The ball leaving the yard.

And my son's slow trot around the bases.

I can still see him moving from first to second.

Calm.

Confident.

Trying not to smile too much.

One of those moments that somehow feels both incredibly fast and frozen in time.

As parents, we spend years driving.

Years paying fees.

Years sitting in uncomfortable chairs.

Years waking up before sunrise.

Years packing coolers.

Years running from one event to another.

And every now and then, life gives you a moment that reminds you exactly why.

Not because of a home run.

Not because of a grand slam.

Not because of a win.

But because you get to witness someone you love experience something they will remember forever.

The team went on to win.

Which meant another 5:00 a.m. wake-up on Sunday.

Another day at the ballpark.

Another long day.

And not once did I care.

Because in an instant, everything had changed.

And that's what I've been thinking about all week.

How often in life do we feel defeated?

How often do we feel tired?

How often do we quietly wish we could just skip the next challenge?

The workout.

The meeting.

The project.

The difficult conversation.

The extra effort.

The early alarm clock.

The thing we know we should do but don't really feel like doing.

We've all been there.

The problem is that when we quit early, we never find out what was waiting for us on the other side.

Most people miss the breakthrough because they leave before it arrives.

They stop showing up.

Stop believing.

Stop swinging.

Stop competing.

They assume tomorrow will look exactly like today.

But life doesn't work that way.

Sometimes your biggest moment arrives when you're exhausted.

Sometimes your breakthrough happens after you've already been knocked down.

Sometimes your grand slam comes when you've almost convinced yourself that today just isn't your day.

That's why relentless people keep going.

Not because every day is exciting.

Not because every day is successful.

Not because every day feels good.

But because they understand something most people don't.

You never know what the next swing might bring.

You never know when the call is coming.

The opportunity is appearing.

The breakthrough is happening.

The memory is being created.

You never know when life is about to give you a moment you'll carry forever.

So stay in the game.

Keep showing up.

Keep swinging.

Keep believing.

Because sometimes the moments that change everything show up on the days you almost wished you weren't there.

And when they do...

You just might black out.


Stay Relentless,

Ryan