Prologue

The Post

Dear Baseball,

Thank you.

Thank you for giving us a reason to chase dreams, log thousands of miles, and spend two unforgettable weeks together.

Thank you for Cooperstown.

For Pigeon Forge.

For the home run.

For the Player of the Game pin.

For the wins, the losses, the conversations, the laughter, and the moments that never show up in the box score.

Most of all, thank you for the time.

Because one day the road trips will end, the uniforms will be put away, and the field will get quieter.

But the memories we made because of this game will stay with us forever.

Home now. Heart full.

Until next time…

I hit “Post.”

Then I set my phone down and walked away.

To me, it was just another reflection. A way to hold onto a feeling before life moved too fast and carried it somewhere I couldn’t reach.

Then my phone buzzed.

Then again.

Then again.

Parents I had coached started sharing memories. Friends talked about their own families. People reminded me of teams, trips, games, and moments I hadn’t thought about in years.

One message simply read:

“Your Instagram posts about this baseball trip are fire.”

I smiled.

Not because they liked what I wrote.

Because something about it felt familiar to them.

Their dads.

Their sons.

Their teammates.

Their coaches.

The long drives.

The last games.

The quiet moments that only seem to happen on the way to or from a ballpark.

That’s when it hit me.

Maybe I’d been writing these letters for a long time without realizing it.

Every meaningful chapter in my life seemed to have a baseball field somewhere in the background.

Sometimes it was on the dirt at Sembower Field in Indiana.

Sometimes it was in a dugout with players who trusted me more than they knew.

Sometimes it was on a long drive to Cooperstown, with my dad and cousin beside me, heading toward another memory we didn’t yet know we were making.

Sometimes it was sitting back, watching my own sons chase a game that had once chased me.

The older I get, the more I understand.

Baseball didn’t just give me memories.

It gave me my father in a way I am still learning to appreciate.

It gave me teammates who became brothers.

It gave me players who made coaching feel like a calling.

It gave me Vince.

It gave me Charlie.

It gave me a language for becoming the man I hoped I could be.

This is not a book about batting averages, trophies, or championships.

It’s a collection of letters about fathers and sons, coaches and players, failure and hope, growing up and growing older.

Baseball just happens to be the language they are written in.

Maybe that’s why these stories keep finding me.

Maybe they were never meant to stay as Instagram posts.

Maybe they were always meant to become letters.

Letters about a game that somehow managed to be there for every chapter of my life.

I don’t know if a game can read a letter.

But after all these years…

I think it deserves one.

Dear Baseball…