Have you ever envied another parent? Be honest.

I didn’t play much baseball growing up. I’m not really sure why. My abiding love for America’s past time was always there. I just think my world today is different than my parents’ world was and the recreation of children was then, not a high priority. And hat’s off to them for that - our parenting conventions will almost surely bite us in the end. Let’s talk in 2040.

But despite my limited time with the game, Little League baseball has still, somehow, become our family obsession. It is between those two white lines, on that small diamond, that divine proving ground, that I am practicing how to be a dad. And to be clear, the teams I coach almost never win. So that conversation in 2040 should be a lot of fun.

I have a pretty low bar. Most days I’m just happy when my own kids don’t cry on the field. A good day is when they wait until I say something awful on the car ride home before they teach me that I’m, ahem, not succeeding that day.

And then came yesterday. A day in which I was confronted with something I’d long feared but never spoke about. A day which will live, at least quietly in my soul, in infamy. A day that affirmed that I haven’t the faintest idea how to raise other human beings.

Here’s the situation - I held a normal baseball practice. All the kids were there, except one rogue offender. But this was unusual - this particular kid is always there on time, with a smile. Reliable. Dedicated. Strange that he wasn’t there, but there was a lot to do and I didn’t give it much more thought. Until he arrived.

Without asking for an explanation, and desperately wanting to look like the big man in charge in front of the other kids, I did my best drill sergeant impression and barked, “Run!” And run he did, dutifully, without a whimper or a sideways glance.

When he completed this penance and joined the team he looked me straight in the eye, panting, and said, “Coach, my mom was confused about what time practice was. But it isn’t her fault, it’s my fault.” Seriously kid? You’re 12 years old. You don’t even have an email address or own a watch - how would you know what time practice is?

But that, of course, isn’t the point. This little kid had so much character that he VOLUNTEERED responsibility. He had almost no control of the circumstances, yet he OWNED the consequences, however uncomfortable. Truly remarkable.

For the remaining 30 minutes of practice, a thought nagged me - is this kid’s character, or any kid’s character, just inborn? How could he be so humble yet so confident? That’s when his father approached softly and said, “Coach, I’m sorry he was late. My wife didn’t know what time practice was, but it’s not her fault, it’s mine.”

Got it.