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My son, who was 10 at the time, had already pitched several innings but it was time get someone new in there. He was pitching with intensity and you could see the frustration building — in his body language, in the way he paced around the mound, in that familiar look kids get when they care so deeply but it's just not going the way they want.

My son's coach, who by this point had come to know him well, came out to pull him from the game. He stopped my son at the side of the mound while the next pitcher warmed up and I could see what looked like a serious discussion. I saw my son nod and then watched him walk off the field. He didn’t look happy — but he didn’t look defeated either. He walked to the bench with confidence. Still stubbornly defiant, but still locked in. Something had shifted.

After the game, I asked him what the coach had said. He looked at me with a determined expression and said:

‍“Coach said I’m his bulldog.”
‍I could tell immediately — he knew exactly what that meant without having to say anything else.

A bulldog is tough.
A bulldog doesn’t back down.
A bulldog stays ready.

His coach wasn’t just taking him out of the game. He was telling him he was trusted. That he was needed beyond just that moment. That he had a role with his team. An identity formed. From that point on, my son wasn’t just trying to pitch well. He knew who he was on the field. When things got hard, he had something to come back to:

‍I’m a bulldog.