My son was 8 years old — full of love for baseball, yet swinging late every single time. He had heart, hustle, and a glove he wouldn’t even take off at the dinner table. However, when it came to hitting, he struggled. We’d spend hours tossing balls in the backyard, both of us sweating under the afternoon sun. I’d pitch until my shoulder ached. Meanwhile, he’d swing until his hands were sore. Sometimes he’d connect. More often, he wouldn’t. Even worse, I could see the doubt creeping in. Not just in him — but in me too. Was I helping enough? Were we even making progress?