Carlos Roig shares his thoughts after coaching little league baseball for years.
In our house, there’s a random set of shelves set high up in a small alcove. It’s not exactly usable space — more like a design flaw that was destined to be forgotten. But I’ve filled those particle board shelves with a line of simple treasures — weathered baseball caps that witnessed the evolution of our children, our family and the places we’ve called home.
For more than a decade, I’ve coached little league baseball — every spring and most summers. I’ve taught the game on both coasts — hitting grounders in the humidity of Northern Virginia and throwing batting practice in the heat of Contra Costa County.
I really love everything about baseball — the crisp chalk foul lines and the smell of fresh-cut grass, the adrenaline of the first pitch and the drama of the last out. I even love the heartbreak, because every season for every player at every level of play either ends with a crushing defeat or, oh so rarely, a glorious championship.
This spring, I’ll lead my last little league team — our oldest son is heading to college and our middle is about to start high school, so it’s down to our youngest and me — one more season wearing matching caps.