The red light blinked on.

It always did.

Long before iPhones turned every parent into a director, my dad stood in the bleachers with a camcorder pressed to his eye. Tournaments. Practice. Random Tuesday nights when the rest of the world had already gone to bed.

He recorded everything.

I didn’t understand it then. I do now.

He worked all day. Came home. Took a nap because he knew we’d be out past midnight.

Then he loaded up the car and drove.

Weekends? Gone. Social life? Gone. A break? Never asked for one.

He’d pull out his atlas before every trip and trace the route with his finger. No GPS. No app to reroute around traffic. Just a man, a map, and two daughters with their mom chasing something big.

Kassy and I had a shot at greatness because he gave up his.

But here’s what I want you to know about him.

It was never about the strikes.

He believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. He expected greatness. And because he did, I worked for it.

He set the bar high. So I learned to soar instead of settle.

What if I had only aimed for safe?

I wouldn’t be writing this.

His standards were high. His love was higher. Win or lose, ugly game or perfect game, his love never wavered. Not once.

That’s the part every parent needs to understand.

So to the parent reading this, ask yourself.

Are you in the stands as a coach? Or are you there as a safe place?

Set the bar high. Let them chase it. But love them harder than you push them. Make them feel safe in the loss, not just celebrated in the win.

Your kid doesn’t need another critic. They have plenty of those.

They need the one person in the stands whose love is louder than the scoreboard.

Be that person.

Because one day, they’ll grow up. They’ll look back. And they won’t remember the trophies.

They’ll remember who was in the stands.