You can do it!” I yelled at the nine-year-old boy up for bat.
At 27, coaching the little league baseball team at my former elementary school wasn’t something I had envisioned for myself.
Growing up, the thought of working with kids never crossed my mind as something I would find fantastic.
Yet, here I was, having stumbled upon this job which turned out to be so much more rewarding than being cooped up in a classroom.
After college, where I earned a degree in Education, I spent a couple of years teaching English to teenagers who seemed to not care at all.
So, I quit.The coaching job was offered to me by a buddy, aware of the many years I spent playing ball. It felt like fate. Everything aligned perfectly, and I loved every moment of it. I had been doing this for a while now, and couldn’t possibly imagine doing anything else.
But, this job wasn’t without its challenges. It required an immense amount of patience, constantly reminding the kids that they could achieve whatever they set their minds to.Take little Josh, for instance. He was shy, more of a bookworm, and only on the team because his parents insisted.
I could see the talent in him, even though he was somewhat afraid of getting hit by the ball. I hoped he would soon overcome his fears and start enjoying the game.When he finally hit the ball, sending it farther than anyone expected, he ran to first base, his face alight with excitement. “Good job, Josh! That’s right!” I shouted across the field, clapping and beaming with pride. “Coach Givens?” I turned to see Mrs. Finkle standing by, accompanied by a boy I hadn’t met before.
“This is Robert, a new student. He transferred at the beginning of the week and wants to try out for the team.””Awesome! Nice to meet you, Robert. Let’s get through these sets first, and then we’ll see what you can do. But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll fit right in,” I replied, offering him a reassuring smile, which he returned. Robert took a seat with some of the other kids, while Mrs. Finkle returned to her office. However, as I glanced back at the new kid sitting in the dugout, something about him seemed oddly familiar.
I couldn’t quite place where I might have seen him before. Shrugging off the feeling, I focused back on the practice. Robert was a natural at baseball, and he made the team quickly. He was also social, and the other boys laughed at almost everything he said.
The day proceeded perfectly until the parents began to arrive. Watching Robert sprint towards a woman with a kind, welcoming smile, who then embraced him warmly, a realization hit me like a ton of bricks.
The boy bore a striking resemblance to Emily, my former girlfriend.”But he can’t be, right?” I muttered to myself, but the more I pondered, the stronger the possibility seemed. Ten years ago, Emily’s pregnancy had been a shock to both of us. At 17, the idea of being parents was overwhelming.
Our parents were against abortion, so Emily carried the pregnancy to term, tragically losing her life during childbirth. Her parents, consumed by grief, wanted nothing to do with the baby, and my parents, seeing the toll it took on me, pushed for adoption.
Despite the deep conflict within me, knowing Emily had given her life for our son, and my love for him, I ultimately succumbed to the pressures of my situation and my lack of resources, making the excruciating decision to give him up. The guilt of that decision haunted me, perhaps driving my passion for coaching, and being around kids the same age as my son would have been.
The thought that Robert could be my son seemed far-fetched, as it was based merely on a slight resemblance and shared interests. Trying to convince myself that it was just a coincidence, I reminded myself that my son had inherited Emily’s blonde hair and green/blue eyes, while I saw none of myself in him.
Robert, with his masculine features and bright green eyes, wasn’t at all like that baby. Or had I forgotten him in all these years? After a month of weekly practices, observing Robert’s mannerisms, his talents on the baseball field, and the growing resemblance to both Emily and, unsettlingly, to myself, I couldn’t keep silent any longer. The need to know overpowered my reservations. “Mrs. Marshall, can I talk to you for a second?”
I approached Robert’s mother, who was seated on the bleachers as the kids headed to the showers after practice.”Oh, Coach Givens. Call me Nina. I’m not married,” she responded, standing to give me her full attention, which only added to my burgeoning courage to ask the burning question. “My mistake. Listen, this might sound crazy and completely out of the blue, but is Robert your biological son?” “Wow, hmmm.
No one has ever asked me that before. Robert and I do look very alike, but no, he’s not biologically mine. He’s adopted, and he knows it. But why do you ask?” Nina’s counter question, tinged with curiosity rather than offense, caught me off guard. Feeling a mixture of vulnerability and urgency, I confessed, “It’s just… well, I gave a child up for adoption when I was 17, and I’ve had this nagging feeling that Robert might be my son.” My words trailed off, heavy with a decade’s worth of guilt and longing.”Sit down.
Tell me more. What happened?” Nina’s insistence was surprising. I found myself unloading the entire story of my son’s birth, Emily’s tragic death, and the subsequent, heart-wrenching decision to give him up for adoption. I also shared my enduring regret and love for him. “I mean, I know I gave him up, but I loved him. I swear. If Robert turns out to be him, I’d be overjoyed to know he’s turned out so well. I guess I need to know for sure,” I concluded, my heart laid bare.
Nina, after a moment of contemplation, replied, “I’m sorry for your loss. The adoption agency didn’t provide much detail about his birth parents, so your suspicion could hold water. What happens if we do a DNA test and he is your son?” “Nothing, I swear! I wouldn’t dare intrude on your life. I just need to know that he is loved and has a family,” I hastily assured her.”Fair enough. Let’s do it,” she agreed, her smile tentative but encouraging. The DNA results confirmed Robert was indeed my son.
True to my word, I did not interfere with their lives, but Nina extended an olive branch by inviting me and the baseball team to Robert’s birthday party. After the celebration, she suggested we should tell her son the truth and let him decide if he wanted a relationship with me. “Nina, are you sure?” I asked, overwhelmed by the prospect. “It’s my son’s decision. He deserves the truth, and if he wants you in his life, that’s up to him. But I need to know you’re committed. I can’t let him be hurt,” she said firmly. “I promise, I’m all in,” I vowed.
Nina broke the news to Robert, and although it took some time for him to process everything, his existing trust in me as his coach made the transition to accepting me as his father somewhat smoother. As Robert and I spent more time together, my feelings for Nina deepened, and our relationship evolved into something more. When Nina and I announced our plans to marry, my son was beyond thrilled. He was not only gaining a complete family but also the father he had always wished for among his friends.
