The Ones Who Knew Before You Did

Some people hand you your confidence. Others throw it out the window.

In honor of Mother’s Day this weekend, I wanted to tell a story about why my Mama always seemed to know what I needed even when I didn’t want it or know it. Let’s go back.

When I turned 13, baseball meant starting over.

I’d played in my hometown every summer since I could remember. But that year, we didn’t have a Babe Ruth league team. So, I had to head north. It was just a few miles, but it might as well have been a different country. I didn’t know a single name on the roster. And for a 13-year-old kid who’d only ever known his town, that was enough to tie my stomach in knots.

My mama drove me to that first practice. The sun was still hanging low and hot. The infield dirt looked unfamiliar. Bigger. Redder. Meaner. We pulled into the gravel parking lot, and I locked up like an old transmission. I just…didn’t want to get out of the car.

I don’t remember what all was said, but I remember the back and forth. The hesitation. The excuses. The fear. “I don’t know anyone, Mama,” was said more than once.

And then, Mama asked for my glove.

I handed it to her, still sitting in the passenger seat, thinking maybe she was going to offer one more pep talk. “Are we going to pray?” I thought to myself.

Instead, she rolled down the window and tossed my glove into the parking lot.

Just like that.

I stepped out to pick it up, turned to get back in the car, and she was gone. Taillights bouncing down the gravel, her voice trailing behind, “I’ll be back after practice! You’ll be fine.”

So there I stood, glove in hand, staring at the field like I’d just walked into a new life.

And maybe I had.

I found someone to warm up with. Didn’t know his name. Didn’t say much. But I stayed. I practiced. I showed up. Turns out, he had to leave his town, too, due to no teams.

That was my welcome to Babe Ruth baseball—a league where 13-year-olds play with 14- and 15-year-olds. Which meant that first year felt more like I was playing with grown men. I had always been a second baseman, but now I was just another kid hoping to earn a spot.

The season had its hits and bruises. I’ll never forget a bang-bang play when I got a shot at third base. Before I knew it I had snagged a rocket and tagged a guy out as he slid in. I made the play. But I still carry remnants of that scar the length of my shin from where his steel cleats caught me. That moment felt like planting a flag on the mountain. A small one, but mine.

After that, on my way back to the dugout, Coach gave me a short nod and said, “Good job, Wood.” My playing time ticked up from that moment on.

Each year, I got better. I got taller. I got stronger. By my third year, I was batting third in the lineup. I was getting walked just to avoid pitching to me when runners were on. I nearly cleared the fence with a fly ball to center that clanged off the metal signage. I missed a homer by six inches, but it sounded like thunder off my bat. It was one of those shots that I never felt the ball hit the bat.

Then came the final inning of the final game of that season.

Tie game. Bottom of the seventh. Bases loaded. Winning run on third. I stepped to the plate.

Coach gave me the sign: suicide squeeze.

I didn’t even flinch. I remember thinking, “I’m about to win this game.”

I squared around, waited on the pitch, and dropped the bunt perfectly down the first base line. The runner scored standing up. We walked off with the win. My teammates mobbed me like I’d hit it 400 feet.

And I stood there smiling, remembering the kid who didn’t want to get out of the car three years earlier.

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Here’s the truth:
Sometimes, the people who believe in you most won’t say it softly. They’ll say it with tough love. With a push. Or by literally throwing your glove out the window.

They know what’s in you, even when you’re not so sure.

A coach who calls your name after a big play and suddenly sees you in the lineup more. A parent who doesn’t flinch at your nerves because they’ve seen your strength. A teammate who gives you a nod when your knees are shaking. A friend who keeps reminding you what you’re capable of.

They knew before you did.

If someone in your life sees something in you that you don’t yet, give them a little credit.

They might just be handing you your glove.

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Because every story needs a signature:
“I can only control myself.”
So I’ll be the one who stays calm, who shows up, and who walks out of the car—even when it’s easier to stay seated. Make sure the moms in your life know the impact they made on you. And to all you moms out there, keep throwing gloves out windows. Your kids will thank you one day. Happy Mother’s Day, Mama.