THE ROAD IS NOT AS LONG AS IT FEELS

A Longform Essay for Amarillo & Canyon Baseball Families

I write this from a place of failure. Not the polished version people like to quote in motivational speeches, but the real kind—the kind that stings, humbles, teaches, and eventually turns into something useful. Ben Franklin once said that he didn’t fail 10,000 times, he simply found 10,000 ways that didn’t work. Anyone who knows me knows I’ve lived a few thousand of those ways myself. I’ve made mistakes in business, in coaching, in parenting, in judgment, in timing, in patience. Some of those mistakes showed up like unexpected bills I forgot were due. Others arrived slowly, tapping me on the shoulder years later just to make sure I remembered.

Failure isn’t glamorous. It’s uncomfortable. It forces you to look at yourself more honestly than you’d prefer. But it also clears the noise. It sharpens your understanding of what actually matters. It teaches you to serve instead of perform. That’s where this piece comes from—not authority, not perfection, but an honest desire to help parents breathe a little easier.

Youth sports, and baseball in particular, is stressful. It’s confusing. It asks parents to make decisions without a manual, without guarantees, without clarity. It fills your head with fear you don’t talk about, because admitting uncertainty feels like admitting weakness. Sometimes I swear we need a support group—Parents of Young Athletes Anonymous—where we all sit in a circle and confess that we stayed up too late worrying our kid might be falling behind. We’d laugh about it, but we’d also understand each other in a way only parents on this journey can.

That’s why I’m writing this. To lay down some truth. To ease some fear. To give a fuller picture of the path our kids walk in Amarillo and Canyon—because that picture is far more hopeful than most families realize. I’ve made every mistake you can think of, and probably a few more you haven’t. But I am working every day, genuinely, to help the kids and families in our community understand their journey and navigate it with less panic and more purpose.

So let’s start where most mornings start: a coffee shop.

Picture a parent standing outside the door of the place they go every day, the wind pushing against them the way it always does here. The sky is big—bigger than it needs to be—and yet somehow not big enough to hold all the questions swirling in their mind. They step inside, inhale the smell of roasted beans, and for a moment, it eases the tension.

But the questions don’t go away. They never do.

Are we making the right decisions? Is this the right team? Is this the right coach? Are we behind? Do they love the game? Am I pushing too hard? Not hard enough? Do I even know what I’m doing?

They see a familiar face. They nod. It brings a little comfort, but not enough to drown out the doubt. When someone asks how their kid is doing, the parent gives the safe, rehearsed answer: “Great. Everything’s great.” They smile and hide the truth that they’re unsure, scared, overwhelmed.

They walk back outside, coffee in hand, and slide into the car. The door closes, the world goes quiet, and the questions grow louder again. That’s where the honesty finally settles. Parenting a young athlete can feel lonely. It can feel like every decision is a test and every misstep is a disaster. It shouldn’t feel that way. It doesn’t have to feel that way.

Now imagine zooming out from that single parent, looking above Amarillo and Canyon on any spring evening. The fields light up under tall poles. Kids sprint after grounders with mismatched socks and crooked hats. Dust swirls under the glow of the lights. Parents sit in folding chairs wrapped in blankets, trucks parked in long rows along the fences. Coaches smooth out the infield long after the last player leaves.

And underneath it all is something real and hopeful. Not small-town nostalgia. Not some movie-script sentiment. Something more grounded. More practical. More human.

Because despite all the fear and uncertainty, this part of Texas offers something most families don’t realize: the path to high school baseball is wider than they’ve been led to believe. Not easier. Not automatic. But wide enough for far more kids than the anxiety in that coffee shop car would ever admit.

This isn’t Dallas or Houston, where a massive population squeezes opportunity into a narrow bottleneck. It isn’t Phoenix or Atlanta, where thousands of kids fight for limited daylight. But Amarillo and Canyon aren’t small either. They are something in between—a sweet spot. A place where opportunity stretches out like one of our sunsets, long and visible on the horizon if you’re willing to look for it.

Freshman baseball here still matters. JV still matters. Coaches develop players instead of discarding them based solely on early maturity. And the numbers—the real numbers—tell a story worth paying attention to.

When you compare the number of boys playing 12U baseball across the Amarillo/Canyon area with the total freshman, JV, and varsity roster spots available across Amarillo High, Palo Duro, Randall, Caprock, Canyon, and West Plains, the math becomes clear. Not skewed, not hopeful, just clear:

About 15–20% of the boys playing baseball at 12U today will make a high school roster. Roughly one in six.

If six boys walked into that coffee shop wearing baseball gear, statistically, one of them will go on to play high school baseball. That’s not a miracle. That’s not blind hope. That’s not dreaming against the odds.

That’s probability.

But fear doesn’t work off probability. Fear works off imagination. It fills in the gaps with worst-case scenarios, and suddenly a perfectly reasonable path starts to feel impossible.

The real truth is far more encouraging. If your kid loves the game, stays curious, keeps learning, asks questions, works consistently, and doesn’t quit, their chance is real. Genuinely real.

Because nothing at age twelve is final.

Not the kid who dominates.Not the kid who struggles.Not the kid who throws hard.Not the kid who barely plays.Not the kid who hits cleanup.Not the kid who sits at the bottom of the lineup.

Between ages twelve and sixteen, biology and development take over. Everything resets. The early bloomers level out. The late bloomers catch up. Strength appears where you didn’t expect it. Speed shows up one day like a gift. Coordination clicks. Mechanical understanding deepens. Confidence grows from skill, not luck.

Freshman baseball exists because the game knows kids change. It’s built for the reshuffle. It’s built for the kid who keeps showing up even when things are messy. It’s built for the kid who develops—not the kid who peaks early.

And that’s why consistency matters so much. Not the glamorous version of consistency. The real one. The version where improvement shows up slowly and quietly, almost unnoticed. The version where a kid hits off a tee in the garage. Where they throw into a net. Where they learn to think through a mistake instead of fall apart from it.

Consistency isn’t exciting, but it’s powerful. It’s the difference between a kid who hopes and a kid who prepares. Curiosity plays a role too. Curious kids ask questions. They want to understand why something works, not just that it works. They stay engaged. They grow intellectually as well as physically. Over time, that makes them resilient. It makes them adaptable. It makes them coachable.

Parents sometimes forget this part because they’re carrying the weight. They’re trying to plan the journey. They’re trying to protect their kids from falling behind. But the truth is that kids control far more of this than parents do. Parents can build a supportive environment, but kids must take ownership. They must develop the inner drive.

This is where community comes in. Not a performative, social-media version of community. A real one. One built on communication, alignment, and shared goals. A community where parents talk honestly instead of hiding behind forced confidence. Where coaches speak the same developmental language. Where kids push each other, support each other, and hold each other accountable.

This journey is big. Too big for families to navigate alone. But when the community comes together, everything gets easier. Everything gets clearer. The road stops feeling like a maze and starts feeling like a path.

Because the road is a path. It is wide enough.The opportunity is real.The horizon is visible if you stop looking down at your feet.

Your child’s future is not determined at twelve. Their growth is not measured by weekend tournaments. Their worth is not found in early success or early failure.

The road is not as long as it feels. Not here. Not in Amarillo. Not in Canyon. The horizon stretches wide, and the sun gives you more time than you think.

If your child stays curious, stays consistent, stays resilient, stays patient, and stays in love with the work, their chance is real. More real than the fear would ever let you believe.

One in six is not luck. One in six is growth. One in six is commitment. One in six is belief. One in six is the product of a community willing to walk the journey with honesty and clarity.

The road is not as long as it feels.And you and your child are already on it.