🌸 They Laughed When I Drafted Three Girls, We Almost Won the Whole Thing

What one fall season of youth baseball taught me about grace, pressure, and what happens when everyone gets permission to run.

From Chula Vista – Just West of Otay Lakes

Hey – It’s Luis.

Nobody told me winning could feel that good after a loss.

It was fall 2021. Draft day. Team managers and the director. I had watched most of these kids on the field during assessments — but the other coaches had not seen what I had seen.

Before anyone picked up a clipboard, I built a point system. Six categories — outfield fielding, infield fielding, catching, throwing, batting, and speed. Every player rated. As subjective as any eye test is, the numbers gave me an order — and that order showed me players the other coaches had not circled.

When the draft started, I watched the other coaches pick.

Big bodies. Power hitters. Kids who looked the part before they ever threw a pitch.

Round after round, almost every player I had circled was still sitting there.

During the draft, I traded for the Yankees jerseys. The Yankees are champions. That was the vision I had for this team.

By the end, I had nearly everyone my system had flagged — including three players nobody else had circled.

Three of them were girls.

After the draft, the coaches were talking amongst themselves. That is when I heard it. Three girls on one roster — that was the joke.

I smiled. Because I had seen something they had not.

I walked out of that room feeling good.

The System

I had to sell it — to myself first, then to the kids and other coaches.

On offense — forget the homerun.

There are four ways to get on base. Get a hit. Get hit by the ball. Get walked. Steal first base. I did not care how they got there. Getting on base was the win.

But getting on base was just the beginning.

Most players get walked and stroll to first. Our players ran — eyes on the first base coach the whole way — because a distracted pitcher meant we could steal second before he reset.

When the ball went to the outfield, our runners rounded first with intention. Not to stop. To see how far they could go.

A routine single becomes a double.

A deep ball to right that any other team turns into a double, we turned into a triple.

Read the play. Trust your coaches. Commit before the defense can recover.

The pitcher cannot reset fast enough. The infield cannot reset fast enough. The next batter is already in the box. And we had been training for this moment. They had not.

Get on base. Run with intention. Push further than they expect.

That was our way of playing.

On defense — get the ball back fast.

The outfielders were going to make mistakes. That is youth baseball. So we drilled one thing: get the ball back into the infield ahead of the runner, as fast as possible.

Outfielders hit their cut. Infielders aligned to receive it. On a grounder to right we would yell one-one-one — right fielder goes for the out at first, pitcher backs up in case of an overthrow.

No matter what happened, the objective was the same: get the ball into the infield ahead of the runner.

Henri was our closer. Once we had the lead, I wanted him on the mound to hold it. Our offense was scoring seven to ten runs per game. We had margin. When you put that kind of pressure on a team, they crack.

The Reveal

Midway through the season, I asked the team — by a show of hands — who had the most doubles, triples, and stolen bases.

Every hand pointed to Henri.

They were right. Henri had the most. Then I stopped them. I want to show you something, I said. We ran a drill — home plate to third, fastest time.

To the team’s surprise, Henri was not the fastest. He was in the top third. Some of the kids at the bottom of the lineup were flying.

So I asked them: what was the difference?

Boldness and confidence. Henri trusted his coaches waving him on. He committed to the next base and got there before the tag. That willingness to push — it was available to every player on that field.

The Root

”Run with boldness and confidence” did not start on a baseball field.

It started in a car. Fall 2018. Henri and Gemma in the back seat, every morning before school.

Holy Spirit, fill us with strength and courage so we can play, learn, and work with boldness and confidence.

That prayer came from a season in Bible Study Fellowship, as we journeyed through Joshua. One command stayed with me.

“Be strong and courageous. Face your fears. Follow your vision even when you cannot see the whole field.” —Joshua 1:6

I had been praying that prayer with my kids for three years before I ever stood in that draft room. When I walked onto the field with these kids, I already knew what I wanted to give them.

Not just a system. A spirit.

The Kid Nobody Picked

The bottom of the lineup had a kid batting tenth. He did not come through the draft — he was assigned to our team after the fact. My system had rated his speed at 2.5 out of 5.

He was the fastest player on the field.

Nobody knew it yet — not even him. But our way of playing gave him permission to find out.

He got on base. He ran. He pushed for third. He got thrown out.

And we celebrated him like he had just scored the winning run.

Because he had pushed. And that mattered more than the out.

By the end of the season, he was stealing bases and making contact more consistently. Something had opened up in him. Permission to fail will do that.

He is one of the greatest breakthroughs I have ever watched on a baseball field.

Ten regular season games. We lost two. Both by one run. Both were the games Henri was away with his travel team.

When the team heard he would not be there, they were sad. But on game day every player stepped up. And after both losses, the huddle looked like a celebration. Smiles everywhere. They had played as a team.

Henri or no Henri.

We went into the playoffs. Won the first game.

The second game — we were down one run. Sixth inning. One out. Runners on first and third. We were right there. Then the other manager rushed over to the umpire. Called the game on time. Two hour limit. That was it.

The director told me afterward: you should have called me over.

But that’s baseball.

At the end of the season the parents gave me gift cards to Coronado Brewing and Dick’s Sports. And a signed wood cut with one word on it.

Coach.

What The Season Taught Me

When you build something where everyone can contribute — where the goal is getting on base, not the homerun — every player finds a way in. Something opens up. The kid who felt invisible starts to run. The parent in the bleachers starts to breathe again. The team stops playing not to lose and starts playing to win together.

Moneyball helped me build this. The core idea: getting on base is the most valuable thing an offense can do. We applied it to youth baseball, where the margin for error is completely different — outfielders drop the ball, relays break down. And because we got on base at a high rate, opposing teams burned through pitchers faster. Pitch counts add up when you cannot get anybody out. By the time the game was close, their arms were gone.

Other coaches tried to copy our baserunning. They could not hold it. The first time a player got thrown out at third, the hesitation came back. They slid back to their old ways.

Because you can copy a method. You cannot copy what is underneath it.

John 1:16 — from his fullness we have all received grace upon grace. Not one grace. Grace that keeps coming. You get thrown out at third and grace says: try again. That is what we were playing with. That is what the other teams could not copy.

I know what it feels like to bat ninth. I was that kid. And I know what it feels like when someone builds something where you can contribute anyway. That is what I was trying to give them.

I still think about that team. The smiles in the huddle after a loss. A kid batting tenth becoming the fastest player on the field. Runners on first and third with one out — and the game called before we could finish.

That season was won before the last inning. The scoreboard just did not get to finish the story.

Where in your life have you been waiting to be picked — when you could just step up to the plate?

This week: Think of one person in your orbit who has been running hard but has not been seen yet. Tell them what you see. Out loud. That is a seed.

If this resonated — you might also like: She Asked Me to Build Her Chair. I Almost Said No.

What is the seed you have been planting that you haven’t seen break ground yet? Reply or leave a comment and tell me. I read every one.

🌸 Happy Grace,

Luis

P.S. — Did you ever play or coach youth sports? What is one thing you wish someone had told you at the start of a season?