“Now batting, Number 2...”
On a baseball diamond outside of Austin, the oldest Radice boy jogs to the plate, his walk-up song (“I Ain’t Worried” by OneRepublic) blaring over the speakers. His brothers, parents, and grandparents are in the stands, cheering him on in the 93-degree October Texas heat.
Before he steps into the box, Coach Mark puts a hand on the 6-year-old’s shoulder.
“Hey, Number 2, let’s lock in.” Then he says the magic words. The words that always get Number 2 in the right mindset.
“Get mad at it.”
Number 2’s struck out twice today. In front of Grandpa, in from Houston for the first time this season. In front of his parents, who he waves to every inning. In front of his teammates, many of whom he’s played with for years.
He’s already mad at it.
Coach Bradshaw throws the first one. It’s high. Number 2 swings anyway, locked in on getting that hit.
Strike one.
The next pitch is right over the plate. PING.
But the ball hits the netting off the first-base line. Strike two.
Now, Number 2 isn’t mad anymore. He’s nervous. He doesn’t want to strike out again. Especially not in front of Grandpa.
The next pitch is low, and he lets it go. It’s a heads-up play for the amped-up first-grader. He’s battling.
The next pitch comes, and he swings. His bat sails below another high pitch.
Strike three.
In seasons past, this was when Number 2 would’ve stomped into the dugout in tears, thrown his helmet, and refused to take the field. Number 2’s a lot like his dad that way.
Not today. Number 2 walks back to the dugout, his shoulders slumped, his face sad. But he’s composed. He’s got it under control, as he would say. And he does a bunch of stuff that makes his grandpa (and his dad) proud, regardless of the box score.
He supports his teammates. He shakes the opponents’ hands after the victory. He celebrates his friend when the game ball’s handed out. Coach Mark claps me on the shoulder.
“He’s right there. He’s gonna put this thing together soon. You watch, it’s just gonna click.”
Later that day, friends are over, and the boys play baseball until dark. I have to veto the pleas to play by flashlight: “Somebody’s gonna get a concussion.”
I put Number 2 to bed, and it’s clear that, to quote Ice Cube, “Today was a good day.” Family, friends, teammates. I’m happy with the way he showed up for all of them.
But what he does over the next week doesn’t just make me happy.
It earns him the game ball.
And it shows his dad a simple, highly effective five-step process to turn failure into success.
Day 1: Feedback
The next day, Mom’s out and about doing whatever moms do when they escape their needy husband and children. The boys and I are out in the yard, playing ball on our makeshift diamond that has rocks in the basepath. The field has a few challenges beyond tripping hazards: any balls hit in the air out of the infield are over the fence (hitter-friendly park), and it’s crucial to field ground balls quickly, before the puppy gets them.
I’m pitching to Number 2. My middle kid, the 4-year-old, is threatening to score from second base. My youngest, a 2-year-old who is not at all qualified to play baseball, is the lone defender.
I throw a few balls to Number 2.
Whiff.
Whiff.
PING (foul tip).
Whiff.
He’s getting frustrated. He looks at me, sees I’m about to start coaching him, and prepares to get more frustrated.
That’s when a high-pitched voice shouts from second base:
“You’re not doing the step!”
The 4-year-old is right. Number 2 isn’t stepping into his swing.
“But I don’t like doing the step!” he shouts back. Yet there’s hesitation there. The shout lacks the usual big brother “I-know-more-than-you” edge.
“But buddy,” I say, “if you don’t do it, you can’t rotate your hips and step into your swing. That’s where your power comes from.”
Number 2 smacks his bat on the plate and loads up for his next swing. This time, he does the step. His hips move…sort of. He hits a limp grounder to first base.
I look back to see if my 2-year-old defender will make the play.
He’s tackling the dog.
Day 2: Study
The next night, it’s dinner time. The Yankees are out of the playoffs (again). Dad would usually stop watching because he’s a big baby about his Yanks, but baseball’s still on.
Tonight, it’s the Brewers against the Dodgers. Lo and behold, no more than 2 minutes after we turn it on, someone on the Brewers cranks a monster hit. We all go “Whoa” in unison (as groups of dudes tend to do).
And then the broadcast slows down the swing. In 4K slow motion, we see the batter “do the step,” open his hips, and mash a ball into the outfield.
“See?” I tap Number 2 on the leg and point. “Look at the way he steps and turns his hips. Look how much power he had. You can do that.”
Number 2 nods and goes back to his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I’m not sure if he heard what I said, or just nodded to shut me up.
I don’t pursue it further, choosing to let him enjoy the sandwich he’s chosen over the burgers I just grilled.
Day 3: Working
The next day, the school bus drops Number 2 off at his usual time. I’m in my home office, thumping away on the keys. I brace for the loud TV (or, if I’m lucky, the softer Nintendo Switch).
Instead, the house is quiet.
A few minutes later, the sounds start coming from the yard.
WHAP.
Silence for 15 seconds.
WHAP.
Silence for 10 seconds.
WHAP.
It’s around this time I realize he’s doing batting practice. He’s hitting off a tee, alone, in the backyard.
I finish up the email and wander to my kitchen, which has windows that overlook Radice Field.
Number 2 is lining up his bat and getting into his stance.
I’ll watch this one, then go down and see if he needs any help.
WHAP.
He drills a ball into the fence. It’s a bullet. I haven’t seen him hit that hard before.
Resisting the urge to go outside, I wait. He picks up another ball, places it on the tee, and sets up.
WHAP.
He’s doing the step. His hips are exploding towards the ball.
Instead of making my way outside and unintentionally screwing up his progress, I pull out my phone. I record the next swing through the window.
WHAP.
A home run to dead center.
I text the video to Coach Mark. “You said he was going to start putting it together soon. It’s clicking. Let’s see if he carries that into practice tomorrow.”
A few hours later, my phone dings with the reply.
“Oh hell ya!!!”
Day 4: Practice
Number 2 usually walks up the hill to practice, but tonight, he runs. I take my seat in the stands. This is the hardest part for me: watching the other four coaches (all good buddies of mine) teach my kid while I sit in silence. It’s hard for two reasons:
I love coaching young ballplayers (especially my sons)
My son will listen to all four of those coaches before he’ll listen to me.
Fielding is first, so I let my attention drift. I bring notebooks to these 90-minute sessions to jot ideas down. The first half of the 91-degree practice goes by quickly.
My legs are sweating on the metal bleachers by the time they start hitting. I close the notebook and watch Number 2 walk to the plate.
Correction: I watch him strut to the plate.
Coach Mark doesn’t have to tell him to lock in. He doesn’t have to tell him to get mad at it.
My little dude looks fierce.
First pitch is a swing and a miss, but it is a violent miss. Shouts of “Great swing, 2!” and “Oh man, he wanted that one!” come from the coaches (the ones he’ll listen to).
Second pitch: he does the step, his hips turn, and... DING.
He drives the ball past the pitcher, up the middle, and sprints to first base. His teammates have some skills in the infield, but he beats the throw by a mile.
Everybody’s clapping for him, parents and coaches alike.
Before it subsides, Coach Mark turns to me and shouts through the chain-link fence:
“That boy’s bat speed doubled since the last game.”
Number 2 proceeds to get a hit in every at-bat for the rest of practice.
On the ride home, he’s quiet, smiling, contented in the back seat.
I, on the other hand, don’t shut up for the entire 9-minute drive. Complimenting his play, complimenting the way he worked at it, how he was open to feedback. “You made this happen. You went out and worked on it, and it clicked, and now, you’ve put it together, look at you! Coach Mark said your bat speed doubled.”
I take a drink, and he gets his one and only sentence in. It’s a question.
“Daddy, is there baseball on TV tonight?”
Day 7: Send It
Game day. The Radice clan arrives at the field at 11:30AM riding the Hot Mess Express. Quick summary of the morning:
The 4-year-old’s tee-ball game started at 9AM in East Austin, 45 minutes from home.
Less than a mile away from the 4-year-old’s game, the 2-year-old (my defensive liability from Day 1) throws up on himself.
I don’t have a change of clothes for him. Now’s probably a good time to mention I’m in solo-dad mode today. Mom’s back at home setting up for the biggest fundraiser to date for her nonprofit, Safe American Schools.
I take off Defensive Liability’s jacket, hoodie, and T-shirt (yes, it goes three layers deep). Fortunately, it’s a concentrated blast. He ends up watching the game wearing his big brother’s Black Panther hoodie and a pair of jeans that don’t pass the sniff test.
In between the games, we stop at a brewery. I’m 200-something days into my “one year of no alcohol” choice, so I’m not imbibing, but there’s enough space for the kids to all beat each other up in a controlled environment. Two of the seven kids end up crying, which is a parenting win for the three families involved.
Now at Number 2’s game, I drop him in the dugout and chase his younger brothers. The 4-year-old is already fighting his friend with sticks the size of billy clubs. Defensive Liability is flirting with a teammate’s 8-year-old sister, literally drooling on his borrowed hoodie.
In the top of the second inning, Number 2 comes to the plate. He has two runners on and two outs, so there’s a little pressure.
But Coach Mark doesn’t have to tell him to lock in.
Coach Mark doesn’t have to tell him to get mad at it.
He has swagger. “I Ain’t Worried” fills the air as he steps into the batter’s box.
Coach Bradshaw’s first pitch is a good one, but Number 2 swings through it. Hard.
Strike one.
The next one is off-target. Number 2 doesn’t swing.
The third pitch sails into the strike zone.
PING.
It’s past the pitcher. It’s past the second baseman. It’s in the outfield.
For a 6-year-old playing Little League baseball, this is a potential home run.
One run scores. Number 2 is flying around second base, his legs moving like Sonic.
Another run scores. The center fielder throws the ball in as Number 2 rounds third. The throw home is off target.
He crosses the plate. A 3-run home run, his first of the season.
His teammates mob him as he makes his way back to the dugout. I’m losing my mind in the stands with his best friend’s mom, who is screaming like it’s her own kid who just cleared the bases.
He doesn’t look at me, but for a moment, the crowd parts, and I see him smile.
Pure joy.
He racks up another RBI (run batted in) before the game ends in a victory. Coach Mark breaks the team down at the end of the game. Then I hear, “Number 2, get up here!”
Number 2 gets the game ball. His teammates cheer for him, tapping him on the head with Gatorade bottles as the parents clap.
I’m cheering the loudest. In that moment, my kid is my hero.
The Process
We make learning stupidly hard these days.
We have books, courses, podcasts, webinars, apps, templates, and LLMs. We underline, we highlight, we write in notebooks with nice paper. And we get nowhere.
Meanwhile, a kid wearing Jurassic Park underwear does a series of hard things in the right order, and he revamps his baseball swing in a week.
If you came to this article with a notebook hoping for a five-step process for your notebook, you’re in luck (he said, counting 11 notebooks within reach).
Here are the steps. They look simple. They are simple.
But simple is not easy. You show me someone who’s struggling, and I’ll show you a step they’re skipping.
Step 1: Take Feedback. Nothing drives me more nuts than someone who can’t take feedback. You’re fucking up. Shut up and listen. The universe is trying to help you.
Step 2: Study. Now that it’s clear you’re doing it wrong, go find somebody who’s done it right. Watch what they’ve done. See what they’ve screwed up. Figure out your way of doing it.
Step 3: Do the Work. Theory only gets you so far. It’s why listening to podcasts and reading books on self-development can quickly become mental masturbation. They feel like progress, but you’re safe in your cocoon of inaction. Get to work. Nobody ever got a bloody nose watching a fucking tutorial.
Step 4: Practice. Quick story: I waited over a month to record my first short-form video. I bought a DSLR camera I didn’t need. I tried different microphones. I recorded long takes and didn’t use them. Guess what I didn’t have? Anything to publish. When I finally dragged my ass to the chair and nervously talked to a camera for nearly three hours, I ended up with 48 minutes of footage, and I was going to post something from it, no matter what. I was able to use exactly five minutes and forty-one seconds of it. I learned more in recording that video than I did in the weeks of prep leading up to it. Practice doesn’t make perfect, but it does make you a hell of a lot better.
Step 5: Send It. Number 2’s swing doesn’t matter if it stays in the backyard. Once you’ve put in the time and effort to figure the thing out, you gotta release it into the wild. Don’t wait to post. Don’t keep the prototype quiet. Get out there, do the thing, and get more feedback. From there, study what you’re screwing up. Rinse and repeat.
Simple.
Which brings us to the ride home from practice last night. I tell my son I’m writing this piece about him. We go through the five steps. I ask if he sees the process.
“Yeees.” (That’s how he says yes to everything right now.)
“You figured out the secret. If you do that same thing for anything you want to get better at, nothing can stop you, buddy.”
He looks out the window for a minute, then looks at me in the rearview mirror. He’s grinning.
“Hitting: check,” he says. “Next is fielding.”
Game ball shit.
If you just read a 2,000+ word letter and still haven’t subscribed, there’s an argument to be made that you’re doing it wrong. It’s a quick fix.