If you’re new to Raising Myles, Welcome!
I write letters to my infant son, Myles, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself. If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back. If you’re new here, the last few times I used video to document my journey being a dad
2 Years Old
Dear Myles,
A couple months ago, we started t-ball. When we called registration for information and told them your age, the woman on the other end of the phone was eager to let us know that you were a little too young to play. I told her that you would be fine; she had no idea about your obsession with sports. Even though this was months ago, I still remember the hesitation in her voice, but she said that if we thought you could handle it, you could play. Clearly, she did not want the smoke.
It took us a while to find a bat and glove that fit you, and the helmet we got for you had to be held up with a chin strap so you could see out of it. During our first couple of practices, you cried and fussed, not because you didn’t want to play, but because everyone was seemingly a little bigger than you. But practices got better, and you did too.
While the three-, four-, and five-year-olds pranced around the outfield and the coaches chased them around by the hand, you, the little two-year-old, stood focused, waiting for a chance for the ball to come to you. As long as we had a fruit snack in our pocket, you were locked in.
Things started to click after a couple of practices, and when the coach saw you throw a ball for the first time, he could not believe you were only two.
While you grew on the baseball field, I grew too. I admit I was a little hesitant about what being on a team required. This was not just a little league where parents were there to watch their kids look cute in uniform. One of our games ended because a parent argued with the umpire. Some coaches on other teams asked how old our kids were, and during one game, we even got accused of cheating. This wasn’t little league; this was the South. And if you know the South, sports are as much of a god as anything else.
Some weeks there were multiple practices and multiple games. After working all day, I would come home in a rush to change into shorts and sneakers while your mother got you into play clothes or your uniform, and then we would rush to practice to run bases, field balls, and hit off the tee. Practices and games ended at 7:30 p.m. By the time we fed you and got you into bed, your mother and I would look at each other at the end of the day like, What were we thinking?
But we grew to love it, and I grew to look forward to it. There is something about watching children grow in real time that warms your heart.
And while you became a better player, I actually became a coach. A couple of practices in, I was wrangling kids together, wiping snot-filled noses, and giving so many hugs that the coaches even gave me a jersey.
At times, I felt angry because we weren’t able to spend as much time together on the field, mostly because many of the kids just needed a lot more love. But in the moments when I wasn’t right behind you, like when you were at the plate, I got to see something that I will carry with me forever.
You see, I’m really the only man around you. Your teachers, your mom, your aunties and em’—most of the people who truly show up are women who pour into and nurture you in the ways they always have and always will.
But t-ball was different. It was the first time since you were born, and truly since I became a dad, that I had been in a space where men were leading the children. The mothers and aunties ran the dugout, but dads, uncles, and grandads ran everything on the field.
It was beautiful because you and I got to experience so many Black men pouring into children with care and joy. It made me want to be at every practice and game, even when I was tired. There was something about being around so many kids and their dads, dads who looked like me, who had clearly just gotten off work and were clearly exhausted, but being there for our children fueled us anyway.
And as I watched you take coaching and support from other men for the first time in your life, an ease fell over my shoulders while I realized I was being coached too.
We had three different coaches. Coach K often forgot we were coaching three- and four-year-olds and treated every sport like ball was life. His kids was on the team, and he spoke to them in ways I am not sure were always healthy, but it all came from a place of love, especially when it came to the other children.
The head coach, Coach C, was a soft man who ended practice early on Wednesdays for Bible study and, whenever he saw me getting a little frustrated, would put a hand on my shoulder to remind me that it would all get better with age.
His son, Coach A, was the middle coach. He was the perfect balance between the two—he knew when to be soft and knew when to turn it up.
Sometimes the coaches got into it, going back and forth about how the kids should’ve played, what they should’ve done, or whether we could’ve been harder on them. And that’s where I came in.
One game, I went to all of them and let them know how much I appreciated them. I told them how, for me, winning at this age isn’t all that important. What matters more to me is seeing other men love on my son so much, because I’m really the only man he has around him every day.
Even though I think I lost them a little when I said winning doesn’t matter, I knew they felt appreciated.
I didn’t know when we started t-ball that it was something for both of us. You learned the rules and how to play, but more than anything, you learned persistence.
This season, I watched parents on the other team stare in shock as you got their kids out at third base. I remember almost bursting into tears when your little feet finally made it to first base after a hit.
Me, I learned that things can take time, and that you’ll be fine because love is all around you.
T-ball made you a better kid, and safe to say, it made me a better dad.
I love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Love,
Daddy
While I don't rely on people paying, these letters are a labor of love. All funds collected from writing these letters go towards Myles' college savings. Consider upgrading your subscription to help ensure Myles avoids student debt like his dad.
If you can’t commit to a monthly subscription, but still want to support, here is my Buy Me a Coffee page.
Let me know your thoughts:
Be honest: how serious do youth sports get where you live?
What is the earliest sports memory you have with a parent or family member?
What is a moment where you realized your child was more capable than people assumed?
Who taught you what care looked like growing up?
Want more of Myles’ Letters?
The most recent one is a poem about self care - Child of the Moisturized
These are Subscriber’s favorites:
How I Met Your Mother was was featured on Substack Reads!
Myles met his Grandfather in Brooklyn, NY
Read about My Wife’s Love Affair - It’s exactly what you don’t think
Have you ever been Cooking in the Bathroom kind of tired?
Check out Carrying the Gift, Holding the Love
Read about Our first Father’s Day.
