When the L is a win

We lost our first game in a blowout. By baseball’s easiest measure, that’s failure. But by ours? Signs of success everywhere.

There were hugs. Immediate reassurances after errors. Teenage boys affirming one another instead of assigning blame. Not one finger pointed at the kids who made short throws or couldn’t come through at the plate. Instead, I saw boys genuinely grateful for the chance to dive into some dirt, compete beside their friends and leave the first stains – and memories – on those blazing white uniforms. (Sorry mommas, I know that particular load of laundry takes extra effort.)

The part that’s tough to admit out loud is this: I wanted them – and honestly, the coaches and us too – to be tested. Not hurt or humiliated, but truly tested. I knew adversity would reveal things an easy win simply couldn’t. Good spirits are relatively easy when everyone is hitting and the scoreboard keeps rewarding you. Almost any team can look healthy when everything is going its way.

So as the runs piled up on the other side and that zero remained beside our name, I started silently panicking that my prayers for an early test had been a little ambitious. Then I looked around. Patience. Goodness. Self-control. And so much love. On the field, in the dugout and in the stands. Again and again, I saw glimpses of the fruit we pray the Spirit is growing in these young men – and in us.

That matters because His Farm System didn’t begin because we thought select baseball in the Texas Hill Country needed a few minor adjustments. It began because we were neck deep in it ourselves, and we started recognizing how easily youth sports can feed some very human desires. We want more: a better team, better coaching, better facilities, more games, more training, more exposure, more opportunities.

And because we love our kids, it’s remarkably easy to convince ourselves that we’re simply doing whatever it takes to keep up. There is always another level to reach and someone willing to sell us the path there. Eventually, we had to ask what all that striving was actually producing.

Baseball is a very good gift. But it makes a terrible god. We believe this good gift can be ordered toward something far greater than producing better baseball players. Jesus told His followers to make disciples. We want to be faithful to that command here, too.

Because discipleship isn’t confined to churches, Christian schools or Bible studies. It happens in dugouts after missed opportunities, in responses to bad calls, on the ride home after an error-filled game and in the moment a kid decides whether his teammate’s mistake is an opportunity to condemn him or encourage him.

That’s why Bible study before practice isn’t enough to make what we’re doing different.

It has to show up when we’re losing. 

In how a coach responds to failure, how a teammate responds to disappointment, how a parent talks on the ride home and how a boy understands his worth when the game gives him every reason to question it.

There is plenty of baseball ahead. Plenty to learn and develop – strength, skill, confidence and baseball IQ. Good. That’s what a farm system is for: cultivation. The baseball will get better. But if these fields can also become places where young men learn to love one another, find joy that survives the scoreboard, practice patience under pressure, respond with gentleness and exercise self-control when emotions run hot, then we are cultivating something far more enduring than athletes.

We invite you to pray with us that we stay faithful to the work Christ has given us: making disciples. It’s the harvest that matters most.