Athletics run deep in my family, particularly from my mother. A gifted baseball player, she caught the attention of a major league scout who mistakenly believed that “Jo Young” was a boy. The scout lamented to her coach that it was unfortunate she wasn’t male, as he would have recruited her without hesitation. A phenomenal shortstop, she could hit home runs seemingly effortlessly and played catcher with the skill of a legend.
Beyond baseball, my mother was a dancer, exuding grace and coordination. She could effortlessly master complex choreography as if it were a simple rhythm. In our Army Base-adjacent neighborhood, she consistently outpaced, outplayed, and even outboxed the boys. More significantly, she was the kind of athlete who uplifted others, coaching those less skilled to victory through a mix of practice, patience, and wisdom.
Then came me.
Oh, how she must have sighed. I entered the world with a lack of coordination that would define my existence. Despite her athletic prowess, I became the clumsy one, often returning home with injuries from my daily escapades. My mother, with her nurturing spirit, transformed from an athlete into a caregiver, nursing my scrapes and bruises.
She once confessed her fears about raising a girl. Despite her rough-and-tumble background, she worried about guiding a daughter who might prefer dolls and pink over sports. But she embraced my passions wholeheartedly. I was born to embrace the “girl” lifestyle—if it sparkled, I was all in! If it lacked glitter, I was there to fix that. My poor dog endured my enthusiasm for beauty.
Even though my mother might not have fully understood my world, she never showed it. She celebrated my interests and actively coached me, identifying my strengths and helping me develop them. By the time I was 13, she had accepted my departure from the sports world after an unforgettable moment: I accidentally caught a pop fly and sat down on third base because I had forgotten what came next.
Despite my lack of athletic talent, my mother never stopped coaching me in life. It wasn’t until I had my own child that I truly grasped the mental resilience and dedication required to nurture a child into their best self. My mother, unsure of how to relate to me, took the time to study my interests. She facilitated my growth with college-level literary courses, enriching museum trips, charm schools, talent agents, voice lessons, and fashion shows. Despite my numerous failed attempts at sports—ice skating, tennis, dance, gymnastics—she was always there, ready to drive me to the emergency room and gently guide me toward my natural talents.
She valued my interests because she saw my worth. My successes brought her joy, and she approached my failures with compassion. Although I never tasted victory in sports, I learned to embrace defeat, thanks to her. She instilled in me that losing isn’t failure; failing to play is.
Now, I have a son, and he is gifted in ways I never was. He possesses a natural athleticism and awareness of his body that surpasses both my husband and me. While I’m well-versed in books, writing, and the arts, I know that these skills don’t translate to the fields of sports. David Beckham may wear guyliner, but not while on the field.
The lessons I learned from my mother resonate deeply with me as a parent. Motherhood is about recognizing your child’s innate abilities and nurturing them. It’s about being a student of your child’s character and helping them flourish through practice, patience, and intelligence.
My son is lucky to have my mom guiding his athletic journey. Since he began playing coach-pitch baseball, she has been instrumental in his training. After just a week under her mentorship, he dazzled his coaches during batting practice. They were astonished.
“Who taught you that?” one coach asked, clearly impressed.
“My grandma!” he beamed with pride.
My son hits like a girl—like a 73-year-old girl, to be precise. Even after all these years, my mother’s talent continues to be misconstrued. But I assure you, there is no one like my remarkable Jo Young. Her blend of patience, practice, and intelligence proves that a dedicated mother can cultivate both athletes and artists alike.
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Summary: This piece reflects on the relationship between a mother and daughter, where the mother’s athletic background contrasts with her daughter’s lack of physical prowess. The daughter learns valuable lessons about nurturing potential from her mother, who supports her interests despite them being different from her own. Now as a mother herself, she applies these teachings while guiding her son, who has inherited his grandmother’s athletic skills.