Before he reached the master bedroom, he stopped outside Austin’s open door, his eyes landing on the little gold baseball trophy standing proudly on the shelf.

He went into the room and gently picked up the dusty plastic figure with shaking, reverent fingers.

“Do you remember that first tournament game back in third grade, Claire?” he asked softly, gazing at the little plastic ballplayer.

“I remember every single inning of it, Peter,” I said, leaning on the doorframe.

“He struck out three times straight and dropped two easy pop flies in right field, and he cried the whole way home in the truck, telling me he was the worst player in the state,” Peter remembered with a teary smile.

“I took him back to the batting cages at dawn the very next morning, and we worked on his swing until his hands blistered, and he caught twenty-two grounders in a row without one error.”