Triumph of a Little Leaguer
Part One — The Assignment That Made My Stomach Drop
A FOUR-PART SERIES · PART ONE OF FOUR
Last time, I promised you stories. I told you we would begin where I began — on a Little League pitcher’s mound, eight years old, about to learn something about who I was that would take me decades to understand. So pull up the chair. Here is where it starts.
There is a moment — if you are paying attention — when life decides to test you before you feel ready. It rarely sends a formal invitation. It does not care much about your schedule, your confidence level, or whether you had a good night’s sleep. It simply shows up, taps you on the shoulder, and says, “Your turn.”
For me, that moment came on a springtime Wednesday afternoon at Little League baseball practice. I was eight years old, a proud member of the Gaynes Yankees, and utterly unprepared for what my coach was about to say.
A Coach, a Mound, and a Whole Lot of Fear
It was a typical mid-week practice — running the bases, fielding grounders, catching pop flies, learning to read the game. For anyone who has lived the Little League life, whether as a former player or as a parent white-knuckling the bleachers, you know the drill. Coaches rotate kids through every position. It is part of the beauty of the game at that age, and also, occasionally, the terror.
At the end of practice, our coach called the team together for the end-of-practice huddle. I can still hear his voice cutting right through the chatter: “Nathan, you’re pitching on Saturday.”
He meant in the game.
“Yes, sir,” I said — quietly, politely, like a well-raised eight-year-old.
Inside? I was screaming at the top of my lungs. OHHH NOOO.
I had never pitched before. Not in practice. Not in the backyard. Not in my imagination — at least not successfully. And now, in four days, I was going to stand on that mound in front of coaches, parents, teammates, and an opposing lineup of other determined eight-year-olds. Could this be the moment my love for the game came crashing down? Dreams shattered on a dusty pitcher’s mound on a Saturday morning?
“Sometimes we don’t know what we have the capacity to do until we try.”
I was consumed by the anticipation of failure. And in that, I was not alone. Every one of us — at some point, in some season — has stood in some version of that huddle. At work. In a relationship. In parenthood. In a calling we did not feel qualified for. And we have all heard the assignment that made our stomach drop.
The One Who Climbed Into the Trench With Me
That evening, over dinner, I broke the news to my family: I was pitching on Saturday.
My dad listened. He did not laugh. He did not minimize it. He did not deliver some rousing speech about sucking it up. He simply looked at me, read the anxiety in my eyes, and said, “We’ll practice this week. Everything is going to be okay.”
My dad had been a high school pitcher in his own right. He pulled out his old leather glove — worn, cracked, carrying the memory of a hundred games — and for the next several days, we went to work. Each evening, I pitched to him. Each evening, I got a little better. Each evening, the fear shrank — just a little — because I was not facing this alone.
There is something quietly profound about someone who shows up, not with speeches, but with their presence. No grand gestures. Just an old glove and time.
By Friday night, I was still nervous. But I was ready.
The Longest Twenty Feet I Have Ever Run
Gameday arrived. Coach announced during pregame warmups that I would not be the starting pitcher but would take the mound at some point during the game. I was sent to my comfort zone — third base. Familiar territory. Ground I had covered before. I had fielded the ball there, made throws there, earned small victories there. Third base knew me, and I knew it.
Then the moment came. Coach signaled to me.
That twenty-foot jog from third base to the pitcher’s mound was the longest run of my young life. It felt more like twenty miles. The whole world seemed to stop and stare.
Warm-up pitches. Deep breath. First batter steps in.
Now, let me be completely transparent here: at eight years old, my entire pitching arsenal consisted of exactly one pitch. It was not a fastball, not a curveball, not a changeup. It was what can only be described as a controlled, optimistic lob — launched with the singular hope that it would (a) reach the catcher’s mitt and (b) not take out the batter in the process.
Ball in glove. Hand gripping the seams. Wind-up. And then —
WHHHOOSSHH.
“STRIIIIKKKE!” the umpire bellowed.
And just like that, the fear was gone. Not because I was suddenly a great pitcher. But because I had done the thing I was afraid to do — and I had not died. I had not collapsed. I had not embarrassed myself into leaving baseball forever. I had thrown a pitch, and it counted.
I do not recall all the details of my time on the mound over those two innings, but I vividly remember the sheer, electric, almost giddy excitement of that moment. I was doing something I had never done before. And it felt like flying.
NEXT WEEK · PART TWOThat strike was the easy part to tell. The hard part — the part that took me decades to understand — is what that dusty mound actually planted in me. Next week we leave the diamond and walk to the mirror, where the real story begins: not baseball, but identity.Hold onto that giddy, flying feeling. Next week I’ll show you what it was really teaching me. See you then.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Life, Leadership, Legacy & Marriage Coach · 30+ Years of Leadership Experience
Nate Parsons is a life, leadership, legacy, and marriage coach and mentor with over 30 years of leadership experience spanning military, ministry, business, and personal development. He and his wife Noemi are the founders of S3 Leadership Solutions and On-Fire Marriage, dedicated to helping people across every life stage discover and fulfill their God-given purpose.
