The sun barely peeked out from behind the horizon as it reflectively glistened off the still dew-covered grass at the town community center.

Gathered around the ball field was a raucous, if not still sleepy, crowd as two of the local teams faced off for the first spirited game of the Spring season and that morning.

A young right-handed hitter made his way to the plate for his first at-bat. The outfielders inched a little farther out because they knew he could blast them back towards the chain link.

The first pitch whizzed straight past the batter’s swing and into the catcher’s glove. The crowd applauded the pitcher’s efforts, not knowing that the first strike would fuel the hitter’s motivation.

With the unmistakable cling of aluminum walloping Rawlings baseball leather, the batter sends the second pitch soaring into the outfield. Though this one looked like it might go even further.

The ball barely cleared the top of the fence but was still able to make it to that new and unfamiliar stretch of grass that baseballs rarely seem to make it to, especially at the small-town fields.

Cheers roared from the crowd as the hitter rounded the bases, a little slower this time to soak in the moment. He was greeted by his teammates and coach as they showered him with a glory that he had yet to experience.

This was the best day of his life up until that point… And I got to see it all from the dugout. Sports and I have always had an interesting relationship as I’ve mentioned before here. I had a short span from Kindergarten to Fifth Grade where I enjoyed playing the game of baseball.

But there was a point where my interest just stopped. I was that player who thought to myself “Hey, if I just stand here and not swing, I’ll either get walked or they’ll strike me out.” It wasn’t out of nerves or fear. Just good old fashioned preteen disinterest.

I broke my finger in the last half of my last season playing and was delighted to not have to play the rest of the season.

While I may not have turned into a sports virtuoso and can think of a hefty list of things that I would rather do than watch a professional baseball game, I have discovered a deep enjoyment of watching little league games.

My adolescent cousin Bryson and I are incredibly similar in a lot of ways. We like a lot of the same television shows and movies, we think a lot alike and have the same sense of humor.

You may be wondering to yourself “Wow, should a 30+ year-old man really be admitting that he has the same sense of humor as a 12-year-old?” Probably not, but here we are.

The one way we differ completely is that he has a great love for sports. Not just watching them but playing them as well.

I think at this point he’s participated in every sport available to him, but the one that seems to have stuck is baseball. He would stay outside practicing for hours if you let him and will rope just about anybody into throwing the ball with him that he can.

So, often I find myself at the ball field sitting in a lawn chair, sometimes in the sweltering heat, and watching him do what he loves. I’m still not a huge fan of baseball, but I’ve become a pretty big proponent of what sports can do for a kid.

A couple of years back, Bryson sustained a pretty nasty break in his arm right above his elbow. Despite that, he still signed up to play ball the following season, albeit with a great deal of hesitation.

He was worried that he would fall again or that his elbow would get hit while batting. Regardless of his concerns, he powered through and stuck with the game for the entire season, one marked with incredible improvement in his abilities.

After deciding that he wanted to play basketball for a couple of seasons, he put down his bat and glove but recently decided he wanted to go back to baseball. There was no hesitation at all in his mind.

There’s this innocent sense of confi dence that he’s developed. At his first game this season, he fouled the ball in our direction behind Homeplate. Though I knew there was a fence, I shifted myself to the side out of reflex, and when he saw me, he pointed at me as if to say “You better watch it. I’ll get you next time.”

It’s not arrogance. Just a sureness in his abilities. He believes in himself and what he can do and has even asked his coach if he can try pitching at his next game. He’s learning lessons now that he’ll carry with him for the rest of his life.

When he makes a mistake, he doesn’t quit trying. He dusts himself and tries to do better the next time. He doesn’t cry at his losses but instead focuses on what he can do to ensure a victory.

I may not have reaped all of the benefi ts that sports has to offer in my time happily sitting on the bench, but I’ll gladly sit for a couple of hours and watch and cheer as he does.