A few weeks ago, I got some difficult news.
A dear family friend had passed away very suddenly.
The news came as I was picking up firewood for an event at the farm the following day.
I sat in my car for a good while, silent, taking in this new reality. The world felt incomplete without him physically present in it.
As I started to drive, I reflected on everything he meant to me, everything he taught me, and all the experiences we shared together.
His son and I were best friends growing up. We spent countless hours as kids watching sports, swimming in their pool, and playing baseball outside together. His dad was always ready to join in on the fun.
I always called him Coach, something that stuck after my first season playing for him in Little League.
“Swing hard in case you hit it,” I remember him telling me whenever I stepped up to the plate.
It was a phrase I probably could have taken more to heart at the time. I wasn’t exactly the best hitter. But it is one that has stayed with me well beyond the baseball field.
Coach was always swinging hard at life.
And rarely did he ever miss.
Swing hard in case you hit it.
He was a beloved father, mentor, and friend to so many in the community, especially within the sports community, where he was always volunteering to coach, whether football, basketball, or baseball.
He was a great athlete himself, having played Division I college baseball, and would selectively showcase that talent during practices in the way dads do.
One of the things I admire most about him, especially the older I get, is that he never seemed to lose touch with his inner child. He was always finding a way to have fun.
Man, did he have a contagious laugh. And he was never shy about belting it out whenever something struck him as funny.
Still, he could be stern with us whenever we crossed the line, which his son and I frequently did.
To me, he embodied what it meant to be a coach.
He was someone you wanted to play for. Someone you wanted to succeed for because you could feel how badly he wanted to see you succeed.
He would be the first to high-five you after a win and the first to hug you when you were struggling.
He was a good man.
As I was cutting flowers that evening, I remember quietly saying under my breath, “Thank you, Coach. Thank you, Coach.”
The words repeated like a mantra, or a silent prayer, much like the kind I would say before stepping up to the plate.
A few days later, after the last of our three weekend events, I found myself enjoying that same kind of quiet that had come over me Friday evening.
As I cleaned up the space, I noticed a baseball on the ground, likely left behind by one of the kids who had attended our community potluck earlier that day.
I picked it up and instinctively adjusted my grip, lining all four seams evenly against my fingers, just as I had been taught as a kid.
A wave of memories poured over me.
I turned the ball in my hand to examine it a little closer.
Waiting for me on the other side were Coach’s initials.
I smiled and let out a small laugh.
I knew he was there, and always would be.
That ball now sits in our packing garage, a cherished symbol of what matters most: family, community, and whatever lights you up most in this life.
It is also a reminder to swing hard in case you hit it.
Thank you, Coach.
We’ll keep swinging hard in your honor.