the best part

✨absorbing a stranger’s wisdom ✨

My sons play a lot of baseball, and during a recent tournament weekend, dressed in his uniform, one of my sons and I went out for a pre-game breakfast. A dad from an older generation, who sat at a neighboring table, noticed my son and struck up a conversation.

“Got a game today?” the dad asked.

“Yeah,” my son responded, in a stranger-danger-but-maybe-you’re-alright kind of way.

“How’s your team doing?” the dad probed.

“Uh, fine,” my son upheld manners, but didn’t offer much affect.

“Great day for baseball!” the dad announced, all smiles and shiny eyes. Then he happily quipped to our server: “I’ll bet that kid can hit!” Our server smiled, but seemed detached from any cares about baseball.

Naturally, I couldn’t abandon this guy’s obvious and unmet sunshine that filled the airwaves, so I engaged: “Do you have a child in this tournament, too?”

“Nah,” he said. “My son plays college ball now, and I’m in town to watch his team play.” I perked up. We went back and forth a bit, and I learned that his son had been recruited to pitch on a collegiate team that’s ranked in the top 20 nationally. While we talked, the dad was joined by his wife, who wore a baseball-themed sweatshirt with her son’s jersey number sewn onto it.

To play one’s sport at the highest collegiate level is a desired (and lofty) goal for many young athletes—it’s my own son’s aspiration—so I remained curious about their journey and expressed wows at their son’s accomplishments.

But what I took away from our conversation was his wistful remark: “When your son walked in, it actually hurt.” He put his hand on his chest, implying that my son’s physical being struck open an emotional vein. “You’re in the best part,” he observed, “and I miss it.” His wife nodded in resigned agreement.

“I didn’t know it then, but I wish I did,” he went on. “I probably took it all way too seriously then. But man, looking back, it really was the best part.” I felt an extra surge of gratitude for the space in parenthood that I inhabit.

Twice now, in the past year, I’ve had older dads approach me and my baseball-clad son and express their longing for the stage of life we’re in. So, I figure I ought to listen to their lobbed wisdom.

How easy it is to get frustrated by aspects of any stage. In this case, as a parent to athletes, one could complain about overseeing the material preparations (clean uniforms, ready equipment, remembered deodorant, applied contact lenses, filled water bottles, grabbed cleats); or about supporting the mental prep, the emotional prep, the physical prep, the nutritional prep; or about managing the logistics, the communication, the schlepping, all the driving; or accepting the allocated weekends and seasons that get swept away and into a child’s commitment.

How easy it is to miss out on the here-and-now of a stage by pushing toward goals, or focusing on desired destinations, or assuming that what’s next is better. And how quick we are to notice one’s deficits, flaws, or comparative inferiority. How human it is to become unnecessarily competitive, overly pressure-induced, or destructively negative.

What these nostalgic dads implied was that in their memories, this particular stage equated uninterrupted car time, conversations, laughter, fun energy, shared meals, full weekend plans, togetherness, closeness, celebrated wins, survived losses, joy for a passion.

I offer this anecdote as a reminder for all of us to pause and consider where we’re potentially occupying the best parts in our own lives, whether or not they’re obvious. Perhaps it’s a stage, or an age, or a family dynamic, or a career, or a team, or a community, or a neighborhood, or a project, or a routine, or a ritual, or an ability, or a comfort, or an environment, or a season?

It’s quite likely that something that feels awfully ordinary, or perhaps mundane, or perhaps even frustrating, will be the best part when you reflect back on it years from now.

As we shift into Spring, the season of rebirth, perpetual cultivation, and unleashed sun rays, I wish for all of us a heightened ability to notice and feel gratitude for the best parts in which we dwell.

Let’s keep growing.

xo Lindsay

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